SCENE II.

_Enter_ ANTONIO _solus, in fool's habit_.

_Ant._ Ay, heaven, thou may'st, thou may'st, omnipotence. What vermin bred of putrefacted slime Shall dare to expostulate with thy decrees! O heaven, thou may'st indeed: she was all thine, All heavenly: I did but humbly beg To borrow her of thee a little time. Thou gavest her me, as some weak-breasted dame Giveth her infant, puts it out to nurse; And when it once goes high-lone,[308] takes it back. She was my vital blood, and yet, and yet, 10 I'll not blaspheme. Look here! behold!

[ANTONIO _puts off his cap and lieth just upon his back_.

I turn my prostrate breast upon thy face, And vent a heaving sigh. O hear but this! I am a poor, poor orphant--a weak, weak child,-- The wrack of splitted fortune, the very ooze, The quicksand that devours all misery. Behold the valiant'st creature that doth breathe! For all this I dare live, and I will live, Only to numb some other's cursèd blood With the dead palsy of like misery. 20 Then, death, like to a stifling incubus,[309] Lie on my bosom. Lo, see,[310] I am sped. My breast is Golgotha, grave for the dead.

_Enter_ PANDULPHO, ALBERTO, _and a Page, carrying_ FELICHE'S _trunk in a winding sheet, and lay it thwart_ ANTONIO'S _breast_.

_Pan._ Antonio, kiss my foot: I honour thee, In laying thwart my blood upon thy breast. I tell thee, boy, he was Pandulpho's son; And I do grace thee with supporting him. Young man, He[311] who hath naught that fortune's gripe can seize, The domineering monarch of the earth; 30 He who is all impregnably his own, He whose great heart heaven cannot force with force, Vouchsafes his love. _Non servio Deo, sed assentio._

_Ant._ I ha' lost a good wife.

_Pan._ Didst find her good, or didst thou make her good? If found, thou may'st refind, because thou hadst her; If made, the work is lost, but thou that madest her Livest yet as cunning. Hast lost a good wife? Thrice-blessèd man that lost her whilst she was good, Fair, young, unblemish'd, constant, loving, chaste. 40 I tell thee, youth, age knows, young loves seem graced, Which with gray cares, rude jars, are oft defaced.

_Ant._ But she was full of hope.

_Pan._ May be, may be; but that which _may be_ stood, Stands now without all _may_. She dièd good, And dost thou grieve?

_Alb._ I ha' lost a true friend.

_Pan._ I live encompass'd with two blessèd souls. Thou lost a good wife, thou lost a true friend, ha! Two of the rarest lendings of the heavens,-- But lendings which, at the fix'd day of pay 50 Set down by fate, thou must restore again.[312] O what unconscionable souls are here! Are you all like the spoke-shaves of the church? Have you no maw to restitution? Hast lost a true friend, coz? then thou hadst one. I tell thee, youth, 'tis all as difficult To find true friend in this apostate age (That balks all right affiance 'twixt two hearts) As 'tis to find a fixèd modest heart Under a painted breast. Lost a true friend! 60 O happy soul that lost him whilst he was true! Believe it, coz, I to my tears have found, Oft dirt's respect makes firmer friends unsound.

_Alb._ You have lost a good son.

_Pan._ Why, there's the comfort on't, that he was good. Alas, poor innocent!

_Alb._ Why weeps mine uncle?

_Pan._ Ha, dost ask me why? ha, ha! Good coz, look here! [_He shows him his son's breast._ Man will break out, despite philosophy. Why, all this while I ha' but played a part, 70 Like to some boy that acts a tragedy, Speaks burly words, and raves out passion; But, when he thinks upon his infant weakness, He droops his eye. I spake more than a god, Yet am less than a man. I am the miserablest soul that breathes.

[ANTONIO _starts up_.

_Ant._ 'Slid, sir, ye lie! by the heart of grief, thou liest! I scorn'd that any wretched should survive, Outmounting me in that superlative, Most miserable, most unmatch'd in woe. 80 Who dare assume that but Antonio?

_Pan._ Wilt still be so, and shall yon blood-hound live?

_Ant._ Have I an arm, a heart, a sword, a soul?

_Alb._ Were you but private unto what we know----

_Pan._ I'll know it all; first let's inter the dead. Let's dig his grave with that shall dig the heart, Liver, and entrails 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._ Indeed, he's hoarse; the poor boy's voice is crack'd. 90

_Pan._ Why, coz! why should it not be hoarse and crack'd, When all the strings of nature's symphony Are crack'd and jar? Why should his voice keep tune, When there's no music in the breast of man? I'll say an honest antic rhyme I have: Help me, good sorrow-mates, to give him grave.

[_They all help to carry_ FELICHE _to his grave_.

Death, exile, plaints, and woe, Are but man's lackeys, not his foe. No mortal 'scapes from fortune's war Without a wound, at least a scar. 100 Many have led thee[313] to the grave; But all shall follow, none shall save. Blood of my youth, rot and consume; Virtue in dirt doth life assume. With this old saw close up this dust:-- Thrice blessèd man that dieth just.

_Ant._ The gloomy wing of night begins to stretch His lazy pinion o'er the air. We must be stiff and steady in resolve; Let's thus our hands, our hearts, our arms involve. 110

[_They wreath their arms._

_Pan._ Now swear we by this Gordian knot of love, By the fresh-turned up mould that wraps my son, By the d[r]ead brow of triple Hecate, Ere night shall close the lids of yon bright stars, We'll sit as heavy on Piero's heart, As Ætna doth on groaning Pelorus.

_Ant._ Thanks, good old man; we'll cast at royal chance. Let's think a plot--then pell-mell, vengeance!

[_Exeunt, their arms wreathed._

[308] Quite alone.--See note on Middleton, i. 46.

[309] See note 1, p. 107.

[310] Old eds. "sir."

[311] In old eds. ll. 29-30 are transposed, and the passage is rendered unintelligible. "The domineering monarch" is of course fortune.

[312] Seneca moralises in the same strain:--"Rerum natura illum tibi non mancipio dedit sed commodavit: cum visum est deinde, repetiit nec tuam in eo satietatem secuta est, sed suam legem. Si quis pecuniam creditam solvisse se moleste ferat, eam præsertim cujus usum gratuitum acceperit, nonne injustus vir habeatur?" (_Ad Polybium de Consolatione._)

[313] Old ed. "these."