Let others open what I doe conceale;
Lo he is my brother, I will cover it,
And rather dye than have it spoken rife,--
Lo where she goes, betrai'd her brothers life.
[_Exit_.
[SCENE II.]
_Enter Williams and Cowley_.
_Co_. Why, how now, _Harry_, what should be the cause,
That you are growne so discontent of late?
Your sighes do shew some inward heavinesse;
Your heavy lookes, your eyes brimfull of teares,
Beares testimonie of some secret griefe.
Reveale it, _Harry_; I will be thy friend,
And helpe thee to my poore habillity.
_Wil_. If I am heavie, if I often sigh,
And if my eyes beare recordes of my woe,
Condemne me not, for I have mightie cause,
More then I will impart to any one.
_Co_. Do you misdoubt me, that you dare not tell
That woe to me that moves your discontent?
_Wil_. Good Maister _Cowley_, you were ever kinde,
But pardon me; I will not utter it
To any one, for I have past my worde;
And therefore urge me not to tell my griefe.
_Cow_. But those that smother griefe too secretly,
May wast themselves in silent anguishment,
And bring their bodies to so low an ebb,
That all the world can never make it flowe,
Unto the happy hight of former health.
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