ASCANIO

HOw rests the Prince? Are then his its so raging? What is passed our help, Let it be passed our grief: 'tis fortitude To suffer chances counterbuffs as one That by his expectation had deceived All her faint threatenings: till this adder time Your life has had one constant scene of joy, Which here is interrupted: you should thank The heavens because they were not tedious In their delights: for this variety. As hunger praiseth feasts, so it may be Yowl love joy better for this misery. SForza, you are undone. You durst be bade, and yet improvident, And so it is not Fortune's, but your crime. Which shall I first begin to blame? your fault Or (pardon if I call it) Foolishness: I faint to think that you are passed excuse, Both with the honest and the Politic. It is: The time, the manner, and the murderer, Nor am I free from th'imputation: When now his gadding thoughts had wone the world And Italy was to be taken in But only as and easy seat, from whence He might derive his further victories; Ottoman quaked, and 'twas in chance, if now New Room, should be new-French, & the proud TO Be brought to know what their beginnings were When Fortune had advanced him to that height That grown forgetful of a lowly tomb, He reared huge Pyramids, and troubled Art To match his fancy with magnificence Fit for a conquering builder, who had learned To ruin first, and then to built a City. When Marbles were to be in rich with wounds And cut for their advancement then, Heavens spo to He raised competitors to dare the Heavens: Nor dreams his own descent into low Earth. He went (such was his use) to see the play At Tennis court, when by his trembling Queen He sank into half-death: thence he's conuey' To the next room, where on a couch of straw, As if a downbed were too soft for him, Whom rottenness attended, and the graven, That harder lodging of Mortality, A King, a conquering, youthful King expires. Thrice from death's slumbers he awaked to speak, Thrice did he cry to heaven, unto deaf heaven And after nine hours death he died. Alas my sister, ! Of a new joy: for shame Give thanks at least for your felicity: Can you repine being crammed, and so deserve A bountiful unhappiness? I've known Some that have long endured a tedious siege, Or a more tedious sickness, who have been Forced to a lasting Lent, when they have come Or to their health, or to their liberty, Not dare to take the nourishment they might, Making themselves their sickness, and their foe: Is not my Sforza one of these? you grieve Because you have no longer cause to grieve. Most truly Duke, For Galeazzo is dead. Patience, sweet Prince, Add not unto the fire of your disease, The heat of passion. He grows worse, And opposition does inflame him more: Me thinks I see his eyelids faintly strive, Against Death's closing. Long life, And happy to our Duke.