_Valen_. Good _Fredericke_.
_Fred_. Tis resolv'd on, I haue said.
_Valen_. Then fatall Ministers I craue your ayde.
_Enter Van. and Mont_.
Come, _Vandermas, Montano_, wheres your corde?
Quicklie dispatch, strangle this hatefull Lord.
Or stay: because I love him, he shall chuse
The easiest of three deaths that we may use,
The halter, poyson, or bloodshedding blade.
_Fred_. Any of them.
_Valen_. This Aconite's well made, a cup of poyson
Stuft with despatching simples, give him this,
And he shall quickly leave all earthly blisse.
There, take it, _Fredericke_, our last guift of grace;
Since thou must die, Ile have thee die apace.
_Fred_. O happie meanes, given by a trecherous hand,
To be my true guide to the heavenly land!
Death steales upon me like a silken sleepe;
Through every vaine doe leaden rivers flowe,[213]
The gentlest poyson that I ever knewe,
To work so coldly, yet to be so true.
Like to an infant patiently I goe,
Out of this vaine world, from all worldly woe;
Thankes to the meanes, tho they deserve no thankes,
My soule beginnes t'ore-flow these fleshly bankes.
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