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Iach. O deerest Soule: your Cause doth strike my hart With pitty, that doth make me sicke. A Lady So faire, and fasten'd to an Emperie Would make the great'st King double, to be partner'd With Tomboyes hyr'd, with that selfe exhibition Which your owne Coffers yeeld: with diseas'd ventures That play with all Infirmities for Gold, Which rottennesse can lend Nature. Such boyl'd stuffe As well might poyson Poyson. Be reueng'd, Or she that bore you, was no Queene, and you Recoyle from your great Stocke