Hot. Well said, my Noble Scot, if speaking truth
In this fine Age, were not thought flatterie,
Such attribution should the Dowglas haue,
As not a Souldiour of this seasons stampe,
Should go so generall currant through the world.
By heauen I cannot flatter: I defie
The Tongues of Soothers. But a Brauer place
In my hearts loue, hath no man then your Selfe.
Nay, taske me to my word: approue me Lord

Dow. Thou art the King of Honor:
No man so potent breathes vpon the ground,
But I will Beard him.
Enter a Messenger.

Hot. Do so, and 'tis well. What letters hast there?
I can but thanke you

Mess. These Letters come from your Father

Hot. Letters from him?
Why comes he not himselfe?
Mes. He cannot come, my Lord,
He is greeuous sicke

Hot. How? haz he the leysure to be sicke now,
In such a iustling time? Who leades his power?
Vnder whose Gouernment come they along?
Mess. His Letters beares his minde, not I his minde