Untill my foole, that press'd unto the bed,

Screch❜t out so lowd that he brought back her soule,
Calde her againe, that her bright eyes gan ope,
And starde upon him. He, audatious foole,

Dar'd kisse her hand, wisht her soft rest, lov'd bride;
She fumbled out, thanks good, and so she dide.

Pie. And so she dide! I doe not use to weepe;
But by thy love (out of whose fertile sweete
I hope for as faire fruite) I am deepe sad.
I will not stay my mariage for all this.
Castilio, Forobosco, all,

Straine all your wits, winde up invention
Unto his highest bent; to sweete this night,
Make us drinke Lethe by your queint conceipts;
That for two daies oblivion smother griefe.
But when my daughters exequies approach,
Let's all turne sighers. Come, despight of fate,
Sound lowdest musick, lets pase out in state.

The cornets sound.

SCENA QUARTA.

¶ Enter ANTONIO solus, in fooles habit.

[Exeunt.

Ant. I Heaven, thou maist, thou maist omnipotence. What vermine bred of putrifacted slime

Shall dare to expostulate with thy decrees!

N

O Heaven, thou maist indeede: she was all thine,

All heavenly I did but humbly beg

:

To borrowe her of thee a little time.

Thou gav'st her me, as some weake breasted dame
Giveth her infant, puts it out to nurse;

And when it once goes high-lone, takes it back.

ナー

She was my vitall blood, and yet, and yet,

Ile not blaspheame. Looke here! beholde !

[Antonio puts off his cap, and lyeth just upon his back. I turne my prostrate breast upon thy face,

And vent a heaving sigh. O heare but this!
I am a poore, poore orphant-a weake, weak childe,
The wrack of splitted fortune, the very ouze,
The quicksand that devours all miserie.
Beholde the valiant'st creature that doth breath.
For all this I dare live, and I will live,
Onely to numme some others cursed bloode
With the dead palsie of like misery.
Then death, like to a stifling incubus,
Lie on my bosome. Loe, sir, I am sped.

My breast is Golgotha, grave for the deade.

SCENA QUINTA.

Enter PANDULPHO, ALBERTO, and a Page, carrying FELICHES trunke in a winding sheete, and lay it thwart ANTONIOS breast.

Pan. Antonio, kisse my foote: I honour thee,

In laying thwart my blood upon thy breast.

I tell thee, boy, he was Pandulphos sonne;

And I doe grace thee with supporting him,

Young man.

The dominering monarch of the earth,

He who hath naught that fortunes gripe can seize,

He who is all impregnably his owne,

Hee whose great heart Heaven can not force with force,
Vouchsafes his love. Non servio Deo, sed assentio.
Ant. I ha lost a good wife.

Pan. Didst finde her good, or didst thou make her good? If found, thou maist refinde, because thou hadst her. If made, the worke is lost; but thou that mad'st her Liv'st yet as cunning. Hast lost a good wife? Thrice blessed man that lost her whilst she was good, Faire, young, unblemisht, constant, loving, chaste. I tell thee, youth, age knows, young loves seeme grac❜t, Which with gray cares, rude jarres, are oft defac't. Ant. But shee was full of hope.

Pan. May be, may be; but that which may be, stood, Stands now without all may. She died good,

And dost thou grieve?

Alb. I ha lost a true friend.

Pan. I live encompast with two blessed soules.
Thou lost a good wife, thou lost a trew friend, ha!
Two of the rarest lendings of the heavens.
But lendings, which at the fixed day of pay
Set downe by fate, thou must restore againe.
O what unconscionable soules are here!

Are

you

all like the spoke-shaves of the church? Have you no mawe to restitution?

Hast lost a true friend, cuz? then thou hadst one.
I tell thee, youth, tis all as difficult

To finde true friend in this apostate age

(That balkes all right affiance twixt two hearts)
As tis to finde a fixed modest heart,

Under a painted breast. Lost a true friend!
O happie soule that lost him whilst he was true.
Beleeve it cuz, I to my teares have found,
Oft durts respect makes firmer friends unsound.
Alb. You have lost a good sonne.

Pan. Why there's the comfort ont, that he was good. Alas, poore innocent!

Alb. Why weepes mine uncle?

Pan. Ha, dost aske me why? ha, ha!

Good cuz, looke here!

[He showes him his sonnes breast.

Man will breake out, despight philosophie.

Why, all this while I ha but plaid a part,
Like to some boy, that actes a tragedie,
Speakes burly words, and raves out passion;
But, when he thinks upon his infant weaknesse,
He droopes his eye. I spake more then a god.
Yet am lesse then a man.

I am the miserablest sowle that breathes.

[Antonio starts up.

Ant. S'lid, sir, ye lye! by the heart of griefe, thou lyest!
I scorn't that any wretched should survive,
Outmounting me in that superlative,

Most miserable, most unmatcht in woe.
Who dare assume that, but Antonio ?

Pan. Wilt still be so, and shall yon blood-hound live?
Ant. Have I an arme, a heart, a sword, a sowle?
Alb. Were you but private unto what we know.
Pan. Ile knowe it all; first let's interre the dead.
Let's dig his grave, with that shall dig the heart,
Liver, and intrals of the murderer.

[They strike the stage with their daggers, and the
grave openeth.

Ant. Wilt sing a dirge, boy?

Pan. No, no song; twill be vile out of tune.

Alb. Indeede, he's hoarce; the poor boye's voice is crackt.

Pan. Why cuz! why shold it not be hoarce and crackt, When all the strings of natures symphony

Are crackt and jar? Why should his voice keepe tune, When ther's no musick in the breast of man?

Ile say an honest antick rime I have,

(Helpe me, good sorrow-mates, to give him grave).

[They all helpe to carie Feliche to his grave.

Death, exile, plaints, and woe,

Are but mans lackies, not his foe.

No mortall scapes from fortunes warre

Without a wound, at least a scarre.
Many have led these to the grave;
But all shall followe, none shall save.
Bloode of my youth, rot and consume;
Virtue, in dirt, doth life assume.

With this ould sawe, close up this dust;
Thrice blessed man that dyeth just.

Ant. The gloomie wing of night begins to stretch
His lasie pinion over all the ayre.

We must be stiffe and steddie in resolve;

Let's thus our hands, our hearts, our armes involve. [They wreath their armes.

Pan. Now sweare we by this Gordian knot of love,
By the fresh turned up mould that wraps my sonne;
By the deade browe of triple Hecate ;

Ere night shall close the lids of yon bright stars,
Weele sit as heavie on Pieros heart,

As Etna doth on groning Pelorus.

Ant. Thanks, good old man;

Weele cast at royall chaunce.

Let's thinke a plot-then pell mell vengeance!

[Exeunt, their armes wreathed.