The Tragedy of Philotas | ||
Scena Secvnda.
Philotas, Ceballinus, Seruus.Ceballinus.
My Lord, I here haue long attendance made,
Expecting to be call'd t'auouch my newes.
Phi.
In troth (my friend) I haue not found the King
At any leasure yet to heare the same.
Ceb.
No, not at leasure to preuent his death!
And is the matter of no more import?
I'l try another. Yet me thinkes such men
As are the eyes and eares of Princes, should
Not weigh so light such an intelligence.
Ser.
My Lord, the summe you willed me to giue
The captaine that did visit you to day,
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Phi.
How if they yeeld it not? Haue I not then
Apparell, plate, iewels? Why sell them,
And go your way, dispatch, and giue it him.
Philotas
alone.
Me thinkes I find the King much chang'd of late,
And vnto me his graces not so great:
Although they seeme in shew all of one rate,
Yet by the touch, I find them counterfet:
For when I speake, although I haue his eare,
Yet do I see his mind is other where:
And when he speakes to me, I see he striues
To giue a colour vnto what is not:
For he must think, that we, who states, whose liues
Depend vpon his Grace, learne not by rote
T'obserue his actions, and to know his trym.
And though indeed Princes be manifold,
Yet haue they still such eyes to wait on them,
As are too piercing, that they can behold
And penetrate the inwards of the heart,
That no deuice can set so close a doore
Betwixt their shew and thoughts, but that their art
Of shadowing it, makes it appeare the more.
But many, malicing my state of grace,
I know no worke, with all the power they haue
Vpon that easie nature, to displace
My fortunes, and my actions to depraue.
And though I know they seeke t'inclose him in,
And faine would locke him vp and chamber him,
Yet will I neuer stoppe, and seeke to win
My way by them, that came not in by them;
And scorne to stand on any other feet
Than these of mine owne worth; and what my plaine
And open actions cannot fairely get,
Basenesse and smoothing them, shall neuer gaine.
And yet, I know, my presence and accesse
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Though, with my backe, straight turnes that happinesse,
And they againe blow vp as much or more.
Thus do we roule the stone of our owne toyle,
And men suppose our hell, a heauen the while.
The Tragedy of Philotas | ||