--
Is then our brother the Archbishop dead?
_Hat_. Too true, my Lord.
_Euph_. I am sorry for my Uncle.
_Hat_. And of a death so publique by reporte.
_Al_. Devour'd by Rats, in strange and wonderous sort.
_Duke_. Could not this palace seated in the _Rheine_,
In midst of the great River, (to the which
No bridge, nor convay, other then by boats
Was to be had,) free him from vermine Rats?
_Alf_. Against their kind the land Rats took the water
And swomme in little armies to the house;
And, though we drown'd and kild innumerable,
Their numbers were like _Hydra's_ heads increasing;
Ruine bred more untill our brother died.
_Duke_. The house is execrable; Ile not enter.
_Hat_. You need not feare, my Lord; the house is free
From all resort of Rats; for at his death,
As if a trumpet sounded a retreat,
They made a kind of murmure and departed.
_Duke_. Sure 'twas the hand of heaven, for his contempt
Of his poore creatures.--But what writs are those?
_Hat_. Commissions (if it please your grace,) for glasse,
For yron Mines, and other needful things.
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