JULIANO

Will the French come? then prithee, Death, come too. Why should our eyes dulled to all other sights By Age and sorrow, be reserved for sighed Of war and sorrow? o discourteous heavens! Why have you dallied with us to white hairs? Why kept till this time, must we perish now? Oh wherefore are we come so near the graven And are not in it yet? yet pardon me Good heaven, your acts are above question: Yet I may shed these tears for Italy; Slave of that world, which once, her valour slaved, Restoring back her triumph's with her spoil, Distracted in herself, and only fit To make a bankrout Poet heal his credit With matter for fresh Tragedies. Such laughter may have little mirth in it, And I shall have more comfort in a tear. Herd you the general whispering The Duke is ill.— Yes: and, they say, he has strange fits. But stay, my Picinino, who are here? I, thats the man. But why is this employment? why these Arms? When all but Naples are our friends, and they Not able now to show themselves our foes, Engaged, and almost lost in the French war. WHat will become of this declining state? Can we believe that the yet patient heaven Will any longer suffer? and not give Destruction as notorious as our crimes. Awake, stern Justice, and unsheath thy sword, The Scabbard will not heal us, but the edge, Nor is't enough to brandish, but to strike: Let then thy terror give us innocence, That mildness may no longer injure man. You are a worthy Advocate, and here Comes your great Patron: go and ask your ee: Yes, do good Aeolu —how he blows them hence! How clears his passage with a lusty frown! And yet it may be that despised wretch Worn out of clothes, and flesh, whom his high scorn Would not vouchsafe once more to look upon, Durst in the field do more, then he durst see, Then he would there vouchsafe to look upon. I've herd so e tell that a great City once Was built by Music: would we might not worser Our Country to be ruined by a dance: Oh fear the toying of and enemy. Yowl not believe, not you, till the French swords Dive to the bottom of your doubting heart, Till that th'vokinder news is brought so never, You cannot have the power to believe it: Ent. Sa with S Can you believe this is a drum that beats? That this is the courageous General? Can you believe, that he believes it's true? As many as we have deserved: not one: Sforza has too much wisdom to have friends. Is Picinino then overcome at last, Now I could change my sorrow for a smile. This is a grief of higher fault then mine, You make a war with them you should appease, And urge the heavens to our calamities. First we were punished with, and now for Sforza, Could any justice have more method in't. What? deep in meditation, noble friend? So studious of your Watch? alas good man, Thou needest not this faint help to guess at Fate, These silver hairs are watch enough for thee. I fear our Climacterical is now: When all professions turn to soldier, To that eurst Art that thrives by Destiny. The sithes are straighted into swords, and earth Being not wounded is undone, where once Stood buildings, which and humble Poetry Without too bold a swelling might give Kings: Whole Mines undone to beautify one roof, Now only Desolation dwells: weak grief, To say Corn grows, where once a City stood, That sustenance is there where no men are, This is a trifling, and halfe-misery: Our Lands now only furnish us with Graves, Can hide us, but not feed us; we would think Our Cities standing, though the buildings fell, If we had no grief, but Fertility. The Emperor Has sold him some few Almains, but his Hope's Chiefly depend upon the valiant Swizze, Who were the chief in his depression. I'm lost in this confusion: one reports We have lost all; another instantly Kill all the French at once: thus every street Is filled with w worser king people; some cry Arm, Others run crying, to persuade a slight: All have and earnest bus esse in the stir, But in the help not any. How quickly we learn misery? no ghost Would have so courteously relinquished Hell To teach us happiness: if a kind star Had cast a Fortune on us beyond wish, We might expect the story from the star Assoon as the deer benefit: but when grief That against which we would seal up our ears, When that is meant us, we shall surely hear, Though heaven do strain for a new Miracle, So to amaze us to a certainty: Though rotten carcases regain a voice, And hell is bounteous of intelligence, To give us tears. Are you to seek for the collection? Why, has not Sforza made himself our Sun? Are not his favours our refreshing showers? Why should one suck up what is endue to all, Why is the Prince made a Monopoly? Oh swift Arithmetic, To sum by minutes our sad Duchies age. My Picinino, holds this sad news true? Now for thy thunder, Heaven, now for a piece Of thy most eminent Artillery. Are you still silent? see, he tears their papers, Papers, perhaps, wherein they worship him, Give him more titles, then they give their God And yet he tears them. Oh vast Favourite! Swelled by the airy favour of thy Prince, Till thou hast dimmed the light that made thee shine, Till Sforza is less then his Sanseverin. Tell me, good Picinino, does the Sun Spend all his rays upon one Continent? Or have you ever seen the partial Heavens Upon one A e lavish all her showers, While the rest moulder with dry barrenness? It's the use, The popular folly to admire events, And those low souls think that the sword is joust, Proportioning the reason by the end Of the chief acts, of the best enterprise, And so by folly run into a crime.