_Cha._ These are strict
Conditions to a brother. _Eust._ My rest is up,
Nor will I give less. _Cha._ I'me no Gamester, _Eustace_,
Yet I can guesse your resolution stands
To win or loose all; I rejoyce to find ye
Thus tender of your honour, and that at length
You understand what a wretched thing you were,
How deeply wounded by your selfe, and made
Almost incurable, in your owne hopes,
The dead flesh of pale cowardise growing over
Your festred reputation, which no balme
Or gentle unguent ever could make way to,
And I am happy, that I was the Surgeon
That did apply those burning corrosives
That render you already sensible
O th' danger you were plung'd in, in teaching you,
And by a faire gradation, how far[r]e,
And with what curious respect and care
The peace and credit of a man within,
(Which you nere thought till now) should be preferr'd
Before a gawdy outside; pray you fix here,
For so farre I go with you. _Eust._ This discourse
Is from the subject. _Cha._ Ile come to it brother,
But if you think to build upon my ruines,
You'l find a false foundation your high offers
Taught by the Masters of dependancies,
That by compounding differences 'tween others
Supply their owne necessities, with me
Will never carry't; As you are my brother,
I would dispence a little, but no more
Than honour can give way to; nor must I
Destroy that in my selfe I love in you;
And therefore let not hopes nor threats perswade you
I will descend to any composition
For which I may be censur'd.
Pages:
149
150
151
152
153
154
155
156
157
158
159
160
161
162
163
164
165
166
167
168
169
170
171
172
173