University of Virginia Library

SCENA QVINTA.

Enter Pandulpho, Alberto, and a Page, carrying Feliches trunke in a winding sheete, and lay it twhart Antonios breast.
Pan.
Antonio, kisse my foote: I honour thee,
In laying thwart my blood vpon 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 heauen can not force with
force,

Vouchsafes his loue. Non seruio 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
Liu'st yet as cunning. Hast lost a good wife?
Thrice blessed man that lost her whilst she was good,
Faire, young, vnblemisht, constant, louing, chaste.
I tell thee youth, age knows, yong loues seeme grac't,
VVhich with gray cares, rude iarres, are oft defac't.

An.
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 grieue?

Alberto.
I ha lost a true friend.

Pan.
I liue incompast with two blessed soules.
Thou lost a good wife, thou lost a trew friend, ha?
Two of the rarest lendings of the heauens:
But lendings: which at the fixed day of pay
Set downe by fate, thou must restore againe.
O what vnconscionable soules are here?
Are you all like the spoke-shaues of the Church?
Haue 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,
Vnder a painted breast. Lost a true friend?
O happie soule that lost him whilst he was true.
Beleeue it cuz, I to my teares haue found,
Oft durts respect makes firmer friends vnsounde.

Alb.
You haue lost a good sonne.

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

Alb.
Why weepes mine vncle?

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 raues out passion:
But, when he thinks vpon 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 vp.
Ant.
S'lid, sir ye lye: by th'heart of griefe, thou lyest.
I scorn't that any wretched should suruiue,
Outmounting me in that Superlatiue,
Most miserable, most vnmatcht in woe:
Who dare assume that, but Antonio?

Pan.
Wilt still be so? and shall yon blood-hound liue?

An.
Haue I an arme, a heart, a sword, a sowle?

Alb.
Were you but priuate vnto what we know

Pan.
Ile knowe it all; first let's interre the dead:
Let's dig his graue, with that shall dig the heart,
Liuer, and intrals of the murderer.

They strike the stage with their daggers, and the graue openeth.
Ant.
Wilt sing a Dirge boy?

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

Alb.

Indeede he's hoarce: the poore boyes voice is
crackt.

Pa.
Why cuz? why shold it not be hoarce & crackt,
When all the strings of natures symphony
Are crackt, & iar? why should his voice keepe tune,
When ther's no musick in the breast of man?
Ile say an honest antick rime I haue;
(Helpe me good sorrow-mates to giue him graue.)
They all helpe to carie Feliche to his graue.
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 haue led these to the graue:
But all shall followe, none shall saue.
Bloode of my youth, rot and consume,
Virtue, in dirt, doth life assume:
With this ould sawe, close vp this dust;
Thrice blessed man that dyeth iust.

An.
The gloomie wing of night begins to stretch
His lasie pinion ouer all the ayre:
We must be stiffe and steddie in resolue.
Let's thus our hands, our hearts, our armes inuolue.

They wreath their armes.
Pan.
Now sweare we by this Gordian knot of loue,
By the fresh turnd vp 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 heauie on Pieros heart,
As AEtna 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.
The Cornets sounde for the Acte.
The dumbe showe.