such bloody doings! The term of being is not worth the sin; No human bosom can endure its dart. Then put this cruel purpose from thee far, Nor let the blood of Essex whelm thy soul.
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, Shalt sink confounded, and unpitied fall.
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