University of Virginia Library

Scæne 7.

Nuncio, Count.
Nvn.
See heres the Count Ferneze, I will tell him
The haplesse accident of his braue sonne,
That hee may seeke the sooner to redeeme him,
Exit Iaques:
God saue your Lordship.

Count.
You are right welcome sir.

Nun.
I would brought such newes as might deserue it.

Count.
What, bring you me ill newes?

Nun.
Tis ill my Lord,
Yet such as vsuall chance of warre affoords,
And for which all men are prepar'd that vse it,
And those that vse it not, but in their friends,
Or in their children.

Count.
Ill newes of my sonne?
My deere and onely sonne, Ile lay my soule,
Ay me accurs'd, thought of his death doth wound me,
And the report of it will kill me quite.

Nun.
Tis not so ill my Lord.

Count.
How then?

Nun.
Hee's taken prisoner, and that's all.

Count.
That's enough, enough,
I set my thoughts on loue, on seruile loue,
Forget my vertuous wife, feele not the dangers,
The bands and wounds of mine owne flesh and bloud,
And therein am a mad man: therein plagu'd,
With the most iust affliction vnder heauen.
Is Maximilian taken prisoner to?

Nun.
My good my Lord, he is return'd with prisoners.

Count.
Ist possible, can Maximilian?
Returne, and view my face without my sonne,
For whom he swore such care as for himselfe?

Nun.
My Lord no care can change the euents of war.

Count.
O! in what tempests do my fortunes saile,
Still wrackt with winds more foule and contrary,
Then any northen guest, or Southerne flawe?
That euer yet inforc't the sea to gape,
And swallow the poore Marchants traffique vp?
First in Vicenza, lost I my first sonne;
Next here in Millaine my most deere lou'd Lady:
And now my Paulo, prisoner to the French,
Which last being printed with my other griefes,
Doth make so huge a volume, that my brest
Cannot containe them. But this is my loue:
I must make loue to Rachel, heauen hath throwne,
This vengeance on me most deseruedly:
Were it for nought but wronging of my steward.

Nun.
My Lord since onely mony may redresse
The worst of this misfortune, be not griued,
Prepare his ransome and your noble sonne
Shall greete your cheered eyes, with the more honour.

Count.
I will prepare his ransome: gratious heauen
Grant his imprisonment may be his worst,
Honored and souldier-like imprisonment,
And that he be not manacled and made
A drudge to his proude foe. And here I vow,
Neuer to dreame of seeme-les amorous toyes,
Nor aime at other ioy on earth,
But the fruition of my onely sonne.

Exunt