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This cannot serve your turne, say he does belye you; He stakes against your body his owne soule. Say there is no such murther, yet the Law Fastens on you; for any man accusd For killing of his father may be rackd To draw confession from him. Will you confesse? Man. I cannot, must not, will not. Mac. Jaylour, take & prepare him for the racke: Wele see it done here. Hen. You are righteous Judges.
Oh fye, doe not belye your country; there's not so many. Alq. How many soldiers keepe you in that fort? Pike. 200. Mac. Much about such a number. There is a little iland before Plymouth: What strength is that of? Pike. I doe not know. Gyr. We doe, then. Alq. Is Plymouth a walld Towne? Pike. Yes, it is walld. Mac. And a good wall? Pike. A very good strong wall. Gyr.
He turn'd to me, and, "Dear child," said he, "I rose to day without consulting my fortune; tho' 'tis confest I seldom appear even on the stage, but such a mobb as this are laughing at me: But that I may not be at difference with you too, I'll tye my self up from this humour of poetry:" "Well, well," said I, "on that condition I sup with you;" upon which, going into the poor cottage I lodg'd at, we order'd the master of it to get us a supper, and in the mean time we went to the bagnio, where I saw Gito standing against the wall, with towels and rubbing brushes in his hand; his troubl'd countenance easily perswaded me he serv'd on compulsion: As soon as he saw me, with joy addressing himself, he told me, that since I was not in that martial posture that once frighted him to belye his affections, he cou'd freely speak to me, upon which he entreated me to pity his circumstances; and, if I cou'd but deliver him from so barbarous a master, since he was now sorry he was forc'd to be my judge, I might take my satisfaction in any punishment I'de please to inflict; "for," added he, "if I must dye, 'twill be comfort enough to so unhappy a wretch to think that you are pleas'd in 't."
'Twere extream folly should I dare attempt, To praise this Author's worth with complement; None but herself must dare commend her parts, Whose sublime brain's the Synopsis of Arts. Nature and Skill, here both in one agree, To frame this Master-piece of Poetry: False Fame, belye their Sex no more, it can Surpass, or parrallel the best of Man. Author of this Poem.
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