No human bosom can endure its dart.

Then put this cruel purpose from thee far,

Nor let the blood of Essex whelm thy soul.

[Pg 16]

Bur. 'Tis well, my lord! your words no comment need;

No doubt, they've well explained your honest meaning;

'Tis clear and full. To parts, like yours, discretion

Would be a clog, and caution but incumbrance.

Yet mark me well, my lord; the clinging ivy

With the oak may rise, but with it too must fall.

South. Thy empty threats, ambitious man, hurt not

The breast of truth. Fair innocence, and faith,

Those strangers to thy practised heart, shall shield

My honour, and preserve my friend. In vain,

Thy malice, with unequal arm, shall strive

To tear the applauded wreath from Essex' brow;

His honest laurel, held aloft by fame,

Above thy blasting reach, shall safely flourish,

And bloom immortal to the latest times;

Whilst thou, amidst thy tangling snares involved,

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