_King._ I think thou lovest me.

_Alph._ More than my life.

_King._ That's much; yet I believe thee.
My mother has the judgment of the world,
And all things move by that; but, my Alphonso,
She has a cruel wit.

_Alph._ The provocation, sir.

_King._ I know it well;
But,--if thou'dst have my heart within thy hand,--
All conjurations blot the name of kings.
What honours, interest, were the world to buy him,
Shall make a brave man smile, and do a murder?
Therefore I hate the memory of Brutus,
I mean the latter, so cried up in story.
Cæsar did ill, but did it in the sun,
And foremost in the field; but sneaking Brutus,
Whom none but cowards and white-livered knaves
Would dare commend, lagging behind his fellows,
His dagger in his bosom, stabbed his father.
This is a blot, which Tully's eloquence
Could ne'er wipe off, though the mistaken man
Makes bold to call those traitors,--men divine.

_Alph._ Tully was wise, but wanted constancy.