Page:Works of Sir John Suckling.djvu/298

278 Than hell could hold! I have conceiv'd of wrong,

And am grown great already.

O sweet revenge, I humbly thee entreat,

Be my grief's midwife! let the mother die,

So thou bring'st forth her long'd-for progeny.

Methinks I feel the villain grow within me,

And spread through all my veins.

How I could murder now, poison or stab!

My head is full of mischief. Sulphur and flaming pitch

Shall be but mercy to those deaths I'll give.

Fid. Though it be not safe for subjects

To pry into the secrets of their prince,

Much less to question about them, yet

The implicit faith of blind obedience,

Poison'd with pleasing oft—and 't like your majesty,

Why do you court this lady thus?

King. Why dost thou ask?

Fid. I know 'tis insolence to make reply:

Yet hear me as the echo of the court, great sir;

They call your last-giv'n mercy and those favours

But fairer ends to lust.

King. The zeal hath got thy pardon.

No more!

He that does offer to give direction

To his prince, is full of pride, not of discretion.

Fid. So,

To give kings good advice, may show, I see,

Men faithful, but not wise. I'm honest yet,

And I do fare the worst for't. O, the court!

There humours reign, and merits only serve

To mock with idle hopes those best deserve.

Fran. Sir, leave your compliment!

Methinks the sweetest speech is that that's meant.