_Boy_. Doe all theis, father, wayt on you?
_Leid_. Yes, Boy.
_Boy_. Indeed I doe not like their Countenaunces;
They looke as if they meant you litle good.
Pray you, put them away.
_Leid_. Alas, poore inocent,
It is for thee I suffer; for my self
I have set up my rest.
_Or_.
Now, Mounseiur _Leidenberch_,
We send not for you, though your fault deserve it,
To load you with reproofe, but to advise you
To make use of the way we have found out
To save your life and honour. You already,
In free confession of your fault, have made
A part of satisfaction; goe on in it,
And you shall find a faire discovery
Of youre fowle purposes and th'agents in 'em
Will wyn more favour from theyr lordships to you
Then any obstinate deniall can doe.
_Leid_.
All that I know I will deliver to you,
And beyond that your Excellence nor their Lordships
Will not, I hope, perswade me.
_Vand_. In the meane time
You are a prisoner.
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