 | Antonio's Reuenge |  |
SCENA QVINTA.
Enter Strozzo.Sir.
VVhither, O whither shal I hurle vast griefe?
Pier.
Here, into my breast: tis a place built wide
By fate, to giue receipt to boundlesse woes.
Str.
O no; here throb those hearts, which I must cleaue
With my keene pearcing newes. Andrugio's dead.
Pier.
Dead?
Ma.
O me most miserable.
Pie.
Dead, alas, how dead?
Giue seeming passion.
Fut weepe, act, faine. Dead, alas, how dead?
Str.
The vast delights of his large so daine ioyes
Opned his powers so wide, that's natiue heate
So prodigally flow'd, t'exterior parts,
That thinner Citadell was left vnmand,
And so surpriz'd on sodaine by colde death.
O fatal, disastrous, cursed, dismall!
Choake breath and life. I breath, I liue too long.
Andrugio my Lord, I come, I come.
Pie.
Be cheerefull Princesse, help Castilio,
The Ladie's swouned, helpe to beare her in.
Slow comfort to huge cares, is swiftest sin.
Bal.
Courage, courage sweet Ladie, tis sir Gefferey Balurdo
bids you courage. Truly I am as nimble as an Elephant
about a Ladie.
Pan.
Dead?
Ant.
Dead.
Alb.
Dead?
An.
Why now the womb of mischiefe is deliuer'd,
Of the prodigious issue of the night.
Pan.
Ha, ha, ha.
Ant.
My father dead, my loue attaint of lust:
Thats a large lye, as vast as spatious hell:
Poore guiltlesse Ladie. O accursed lye.
What, whome, whether, which shall I first lament?
A deade father, a dishonour'd wife Stand.
Me thinkes I feele the frame of nature shake.
Cracks not the ioynts of earth to beare my woes?
Alb.
Sweet Prince, be patient.
Ant.
S'lid sir, I will not in despight of thee.
Patience is slaue to fooles: a chaine that's fixt
Onely to postes, and senslesse log-like dolts.
Alb.
Tis reasons glorie to commaund affects.
An.
Lies thy cold father dead, his glossed eyes
New closed vp by thy sad mothers hands?
Hast thou a loue as spotlesse as the browe
Of clearest heauen, blurd with false defames?
Are thy moyst entrals crumpled vp with griefe
With punching anguish spur thy galled ribs?
Then come and let's sit and weep & wreath our arms:
Ile heare thy counsell.
Alb.
Take comfort
Ant.
Confusion to all comfort: I defie it.
Comfort's a Parasite, a flattring Iack:
And melts resolu'd despaire. O boundlesse woe,
If there be any black yet vnknowen griefe:
If there be any horror yet vnfelt,
Vnthought of mischiefe in thy fiendlike power,
Dash it vpon my miserable heade.
Make me more wretch, more cursed if thou canst-
O, now my fate is more than I could feare:
My woes more waightie than my soule can beare.
Exit
Pan.
Ha, ha, ha.
Al.
Why laugh you vncle? Thats my cuz, your son,
Whose brest hangs cased in his cluttered gore.
Pa.
True man, true: why, wherfore should I weepe?
Come sit, kinde Nephew: come on: thou and I
Will talke as Chorus to this tragedie.
Intreat the musick straine their instruments,
With a slight touch whilst we. Say on fair cuz.
Alb.
He was the very hope of Italy, Musick sounds softly.
The blooming honour of your drooping age.
P,
True cuz, true. They say that men of hope are crusht:
Good are supprest by base desertlesse clods,
That stifle gasping vertue. Look sweet youth,
How prouident our quick Venetians are,
Least houes of iades should trample on my boy:
Looke how they lift him vp to eminence,
Heaue him, boue reach of flesh. Ha, ha, ha.
Vncle, this laughter ill becomes your griefe.
Pan.
Would'st haue me cry, run rauing vp & down,
For my sons losse? would'st haue me turn rank mad,
Or wring my face with mimick action;
Stampe, curse, weepe, rage, & then my bosome strike?
Away tis apish action, player-like.
If hee is guiltlesse, why should teares be spent?
Thrice blessed soule that dyeth innocent.
If he is leapred with so foule a guilt,
Why should a sigh be lent, a teare be spilt?
The gripe of chaunce is weake, to wring a teare,
From him that knowes what fortitude should beare.
Listen young blood. Tis not true valors pride,
To swagger, quarrell, sweare, stampe, raue, and chide,
To stab in fume of blood, to keepe lowde coyle,
To bandie factions in domestick broyles,
To dare the act of Sins, whose filth excels
The blackest customes of blinde Infidels.
No, my lou'd youth: he may of valour vaunt;
Whom fortunes lowdest thunder can not daunt,
Whom fretful gaules of chance, sterne fortunes siege;
Makes not his reason slinke, the soules faire liege,
Whose well pais'd action euer rests vpon
Not giddie humours, but discretion.
This heart in valour euen Ioue out-goes:
Ioue is without, but this 'boue sense of woes:
And such a one eternitie: Behold,
Good morrow sonne: thou bidst a fig for colde.
Sound lowder musick: let my breath exact,
You strike sad Tones vnto this dismall act.
| Antonio's Reuenge | |