My rising passions, as you are my King,
I fall before you, and present my Sword
To cut mine own flesh, if it be your will.
Alas! I am nothing but a multitude
Of walking griefs; yet should I murther you,
I might before the world take the excuse
Of madness: for compare my injuries,
And they will well appear too sad a weight
For reason to endure; but fall I first
Amongst my sorrows, ere my treacherous hand
Touch holy things: but why? I know not what
I have to say; why did you choose out me
To make thus wretched? there were thousand fools
Easie to work on, and of state enough within the Island.

_Evad_. I would not have a fool, it were no credit for me.

_Amint_. Worse and worse!
Thou that dar'st talk unto thy Husband thus,
Profess thy self a Whore; and more than so,
Resolve to be so still; it is my fate
To bear and bow beneath a thousand griefs,
To keep that little credit with the World.
But there were wise ones too, you might have ta'ne
another.

_King_. No; for I believe thee honest, as thou wert valiant.

_Amint_. All the happiness
Bestow'd upon me, turns into disgrace;