SCENE III.--_Inside a Prison.

CHARLEMONT _discovered._

_Charl._ I grant thee, Heaven, thy goodness doth command Our punishments, but yet no further than The measure of our sins. How should they else Be just? Or how should that good purpose of Thy justice take effect by bounding men Within the confines of humanity, When our afflictions do exceed our crimes? Then they do rather teach the barbarous world Examples that extend her cruelties Beyond their own dimensions, and instruct Our actions to be much more barbarous. O my afflicted soul! How torment swells Thy apprehension with profane conceit, Against the sacred justice of my God! Our own constructions are the authors of Our misery. We never measure our Conditions but with men above us in Estate. So while our spirits labour to Be higher than our fortunes, they are more base. Since all those attributes which make men seem Superior to us, are man's subjects and Were made to serve him. The repining man Is of a servile spirit to deject The value of himself below their estimation.

_Enter_ SEBASTIAN _with the_ Keeper.

_Sebas._ Here. Take my sword.--How now, my wild swaggerer? Y'are tame enough now, are you not? The penury of a prison is like a soft consumption. 'Twill humble the pride o' your mortality, and arm your soul in complete patience to endure the weight of affliction without feeling it. What, hast no music in thee? Th' hast trebles and basses enough. Treble injury and base usage. But trebles and basses make poor music without means.[161] Thou wantest means, dost? What? Dost droop? art dejected?

_Charl._ No, sir. I have a heart above the reach Of thy most violent maliciousness; A fortitude in scorn of thy contempt (Since Fate is pleased to have me suffer it) That can bear more than thou hast power t' inflict. I was a baron. That thy father has Deprived me of. Instead of that I am Created king. I've lost a signiory[162] That was confined within a piece of earth, A wart upon the body of the world, But now I am an emperor of a world, This little world of man. My passions are My subjects, and I can command them laugh, Whilst thou dost tickle 'em to death with misery.

_Sebas._ 'Tis bravely spoken, and I love thee for't. Thou liest here for a thousand crowns. Here are a thousand to redeem thee. Not for the ransom o' my life thou gavest me,--that I value not at one crown--'tis none o' my deed. Thank my father for't. 'Tis his goodness. Yet he looks not for thanks. For he does it under hand, out of a reserved disposition to do thee good without ostentation.--Out o' great heart you'll refuse't now; will you?

_Charl._ No. Since I must submit myself to Fate, I never will neglect the offer of One benefit, but entertain them as Her favours and the inductions to some end Of better fortune. As whose instrument, I thank thy courtesy.

_Sebas._ Well, come along. [_Exeunt._