To blast your honour and traduce your fame.

Bur. Though ne'er my wishing heart could call you friend,

Yet honour and esteem I always bore you;

And never meant, but with respect to serve you.

Not. It is enough, my lord, I know it well,

And feel rekindling virtue warm my breast;

Honour and gratitude their force resume

Within my heart, and every wish is yours.

O Cecil, Cecil, what a foe hast thou!

A deadly foe, whilst hated Essex lives!

Bur. I know it well—but can assign no cause.

Not. Ambition's restless hand has wound his thoughts

Too high for England's welfare; nay, the queen

Scarce sits in safety on her throne, while he,

Th' audacious Essex, freely treads at large,

And breathes the common air. Ambition is

The only god he serves; to whom he'd sacrifice

His honour, country, friends, and every tie

Of truth and bond of nature; nay, his love.

Bur. The man, that in his public duty fails,

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