_Cla_. Deare Mother, please you walke Into your Chamber: here the wind is cold And may disease your weaknes. _Mag_.

Here is your vayle, and't please your ladiship. _Lady_. Let me alone, you trouble me; I feele A soddaine change; each organ of my soule Suffers a strong vicissitude; and, though I do detest a voluntary death, My Conscience tells me that it is most iust That the cursd author of such impious ills Ought not to live.

_Tho_. O thinke not soe: those words Retaine affinity with that passion I hop'd youd left. The greatest of your Sinns Mercy will smile at, when you doe implore Its unconsuming grace: the dullest cloud Will, when you pray, be active as the ayre In opening to receive that breath to heaven Thats spent to purge your ills.