Good Lady be not fearful, though he should not
  Give you your present end in this, believe it,
  You shall feel, if your vertue can induce you
  To labour on’t, this tempest which I know,
  Is but a poor proof ’gainst your patience: 
  All those contents, your spirit will arrive at,
  Newer and sweeter to you; your Royal brother,
  When he shall once collect himself, and see
  How far he has been asunder from himself;
  What a meer stranger to his golden temper: 
  Must from those roots of vertue, never dying,
  Though somewhat stopt with humour, shoot again
  Into a thousand glories, bearing his fair branches
  High as our hopes can look at, straight as justice,
  Loaden with ripe contents; he loves you dearly,
  I know it, and I hope I need not farther
  Win you to understand it.

Pan.

  I believe it. 
  But howsoever, I am sure I love him dearly: 
  So dearly, that if any thing I write
  For my enlarging should beget his anger,
  Heaven be a witness with me and my faith,
  I had rather live intomb’d here.

Gob.

   You shall not feel a worse stroke than your grief,
  I am sorry ’tis so sharp, I kiss your hand,
  And this night will deliver this true story,
  With this hand to your Brother.

_ Pan._

  Peace go with you, you are a good man.

[Exit Gob.

  My Spaconia, why are you ever sad thus?

Spa.

  O dear Lady.

Pan.

  Prethee discover not a way to sadness,
  Nearer than I have in me, our two sorrows
  Work like two eager Hawks, who shall get highest;
  How shall I lessen thine? for mine I fear
  Is easier known than cur’d.

Spa.

  Heaven comfort both,
  And give you happy ends, however I
  Fall in my stubborn fortunes.

Pan.

  This but teaches
  How to be more familiar with our sorrows,
  That are too much our masters:  good Spaconia
  How shall I do you service?

Spa.

  Noblest Lady,
  You make me more a slave still to your goodness,
  And only live to purchase thanks to pay you,
  For that is all the business of my life:  now
  I will be bold, since you will have it so,
  To ask a noble favour of you.

Pan.

  Speak it, ’tis yours, for from so sweet a vertue,
  No ill demand has issue.

Spa.

  Then ever vertuous, let me beg your will
  In helping me to see the Prince Tigranes,
  With whom I am equal prisoner, if not more.

Pan.

Reserve me to a greater end Spaconia; Bacurius cannot want so much good manners As to deny your gentle visitation, Though you came only with your own command.

Spa.