But duties of a Father:  I did more;
      I taught him how to manage Arms, to dare
      An Enemy; to court both death and dangers;
      Yet these were but additions to compleat
      A well accomplish’d Souldier:  I did more yet. 
      I made him chief Commander in the field
      Next to my self, and gave him the full prospeft
      Of honour, and preferment; train’d him up
      In all perfections of a Martiallist: 
      But he unmindful of his gratitude,
      You know with what contempt of my deserts,
      First kick’d against mine honour, scorned all
      My services; then got the palm of glory
      Unto himself:  yet not content with this,
      He (lastly) hath conspir’d my death, and sought
      Means to engage me to this Lady’s debt,
      Whose bounty all my whole estate could never
      Give satisfaction to:  now honoured Fathers,
      For this cause only, if your Law be law,
      And you the Ministers of justice; then
      Think of this strange ingratitude in him.

Philander: 

      Can this be so Antinous?

Antinous: 

      ’Tis all true,
      Nor hath my much wrong’d father limn’d my faults
      In colours half so black, as in themselves,
      My guilt hath dy’d them:  were there mercy left,
      Yet mine own shame would be my Executioner: 
      Lords, I am guilty.

Erota: 

      Thou beliest, Antinous,
      Thine innocence:  alas, my Lords, he’s desperate,
      And talks he knows not what:  you must not credit
290] His lunacy; I can my self disprove
      This accusation:  Cassilane, be yet
      More mercifull; I beg it.

Cassilanes: 

      Time, not fate,
      The world, or what is in it, shall not alter
      My resolution:  he shall dye.

Erota: 

      The Senats
      Prayers, or weeping Lovers, shall not alter
      My resolution:  thou shalt dye.

Antinous: 

      Why Madam,
      Are ye all Marble?

Possenne: 

      Leave your shifts Antinous,
      What plead you to your Fathers accusation?

Antinous: 

      Most fully guilty.

Possenne: 

      You have doom’d your self,
      We cannot quit you now.

Cassilanes: 

      A burthen’d conscience
      Will never need a hang-man:  hadst thou dar’d
      To have deni’d it, then this Sword of mine
      Should on thy head have prov’d thy tongue a lyar.

Erota: 

      Thy sword? wretched old man, thou hast liv’d too long
      To carry peace or comfort to thy grave;
      Thou art a man condemn’d:  my Lords, this tyrant
      Had perish’d but for me, I still suppli’d
      His miserable wants; I sent his Daughter