Printed for J.Bell, British Library Strand London Mar 9,1786.

I draw the sword myself: take it; and hit
The innocent mansion of my love, my heart:
Fear not; 'tis empty of all things, but grief:
Thy master is not there; who was, indeed,
The riches of it: Do his bidding; strike.
Thou may'st be valiant in a better cause;
But now thou seem'st a coward.

Pis. Hence, vile instrument!

Thou shalt not damn my hand.
Imo. Why, I must die;

And if I do not by thy hand, thou art

360

No servant of thy master's: Against self-slaughter There is a prohibition so divine,

That cravens my weak hand.

Come, here's my

heart;

370

Something's afore't:-Soft, soft; we'll no defence; Obedient as the scabbard.

-What is here?

The scriptures of the loyal Leonatus,

All turn'd to heresy? Away, away,

Corrupters of my faith! you shall no more
Be stomachers to my heart! Thus may poor fools
Believe false teachers: Though those that are be-
tray'd

Do feel the treason sharply, yet the traitor
Stands in worse case of woe.

And thou, Posthumus, that diddest set up
My disobedience 'gainst the king my father,
And mad'st me put into contempt the suits
Of princely fellows, shalt hereafter find
It is no act of common passage, but

280

A strain