Eugen.  Performe what thou art bidden; if thou art charg’d To starve me, Ile not blame thee but blesse heaven.

Clown.  If you were starv’d what hurt were that to you?

Eugen.  Not any; no, not any.

Clown.  Here would be your praise when you should lie dead:  they would say, he was a very good man but alas! had little or nothing in him.

Eugen.  I am a slave to any misery My Iudges doome me too.

Clown.  If you bee a slave there’s more slaves in the world than you.

Eugen.  Yes, thousands of brave fellows slaves to their vices; The Usurer to his gold, drunkards to Wine, Adulterers to their lust.

Clown.  Right, Sir; so in Trades:  the Smith is a slave to the Ironmonger, the itchy silk-weaver to the Silke-man, the Cloth-worker to the Draper, the Whore to the Bawd, the Bawd to the Constable, and the Constable to a bribe.

Eugen.  Is it the kings will that I should be thus chain’d?

Clown.  Yes indeed, Sir.  I can tell you in some countries they are held no small fooles that goe in Chaines.

Eugen.  I am heavy.

Clown.  Heavy? how can you chuse, having so much Iron upon you?

Eugen.  Death’s brother and I would have a little talk So thou wouldst leave us.

Clown.  With all my heart; let Deaths sister talke with you, too, and shee will, but let not me see her, for I am charg’d to let no body come into you.  If you want any water give mee your Chamber pot; Ile fill it.
          
                                                     [Exit.

Eugen.  No, I want none, I thanke thee. 
Oh sweet affliction, thou blest booke, being written
By Divine fingers! you Chaines that binde my body
To free my soule; you Wheeles that wind me up
To an eternity of happinesse,
Mustre my holy thoughts; and, as I write,
Organ of heavenly Musicke to mine ears,
Haven to my Shipwracke, balme to my wounds,
Sunne-beames which on me comfortably shine
When Clouds of death are covering me; (so gold,
As I by thee, by fire is purified;
So showres quicken the Spring; so rough Seas
Bring Marriners home, giving them gaines and ease);
Imprisonment, gyves, famine, buffetings,
The Gibbet and the Racke; Flint stones, the Cushions
On which I kneele; a heape of Thornes and Briers,
The Pillow to my head; a nasty prison,
Able to kill mankinde even with the Smell: 
All these to me are welcome.  You are deaths servants;
When comes your Master to me?  Now I am arm’d for him. 
Strengthen me that Divinity that enlightens
The darknesse of my soule, strengthen this hand
That it may write my challenge to the world
Whom I defie; that I may on this paper
The picture draw of my confession. 
Here doe I fix my Standard, here bid Battaile
To Paganisme and infidelity.