Escal.
My lord, I am more amaz'd at his dishonour,
Than at the strangeness of it.

Duke.
Come hither, Isabel;
Your Friar is now your Prince: as I was then
Advertising, and holy to your business,
Not changing heart with habit, I am still
Attornied at your service.

Isab.
Oh give me pardon,
That I, your vassal, have employ'd and pain'd
Your unknown Soveraignty.

Duke.
You are pardon'd, Isabel:
And now, dear maid, be you as free to us.
Your brother's death, I know, sits at your heart:
And you may marvel why I obscur'd my self,
Labouring to save his life; and would not rather
Make rash remonstrance of my hidden power,
Than let him be so lost: O most kind maid,
It was the swift celerity of his death,
Which I did think with slower foot came on,
That brain'd my purpose: but peace be with him.
That life is better life, past fearing death,
Than that which lives to fear: make it your comfort,
So happy is your brother.

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