Beaumont and Fletcher's Works, Vol. 10 of 10

Brun. This is, Martell, Studied and pen'd unto you, whose base person I charge you by the love you owe a mother And as you hope for blessings from her prayers, Neither to give belief to, nor allowance, Next I tell you Sir, you from whom obedience Is so far fled, that you dare taxe a mother; Nay further, brand her honor with your slanders, And break into the treasures of her credit, Your easiness is abused, your faith fraited With lyes, malitious lyes, your merchant mischief, He that never knew more trade then Tales, and tumbling Suspitious into honest hearts; What you or he, Or all the world dare lay upon my worth, This for your poor opinions: I am shee, And so will bear my self, whose truth and whiteness Shall ever stand as far from these detections As you from dutie, get you better servants People of honest actions without ends, And whip these knaves away, they eat your favours, And turn 'em unto poysons: my known credit Whom all the Courts o' this side Nile have envied, And happy she could site me, brought in question Now in my hours of age and reverence, When rather superstition should be rendred And by a Rush that one days warmth Hath shot up to this swelling; Give me justice, Which is his life.