PANDULFO

Tut, my young Prince, let not thy Fortune's see Their Lord a coward. He, thats nobly born, Abhors to fear. Base fear's the brand of slaves. He that observes, pursues, slinks back for fright, Was never cast in mould of noble spright. Dead? Would, would, would. Would, would, would, Wouldst have me cry, run raving up & down, For my sons lose? wouldst have me turn rank mad, Or wring my face with mimic Actium; Stamp, curse, weep, rage, & then my bosom strike? Away 'tis apish Actium, player-like. If he is guiltless, why should tears be spent? Thrice blessed soul that dyeth innocent. If he is leapred with so foul a gilded, Why should a sighs be lent, a tear be spilled? The gripe of chance is weak, to wring a tear, From him that knows what fortitude should bear. Listen young blood. 'Tis not true valours pride, To swagger, quarrel, swear, stamp, rave, and chide, To stab in fume of blood, to keep loud coil, To bandy factions in domestic broils, To dare the act of Sins, whose filth excels. The blackest customs of blind Infidels. No, my loved youth: he may of valour vaunt; Whom Fortune's loudest thunder can not daunt, Whom fretful gauls of chance, stern Fortune's siege; Makes not his reason slink, the souls fair liege, Whose well pais'd Actium ever rests upon Not giddy humours, but discretion. This heart in valour even Jove outgoes: Jove is without, but this above sense of woes: And such a one eternity: Behold, Good morrow son: thou bidst a fig for cold. Found louder music: let my breath exact, You strike sad Tones unto this dismal act. NO no, Piero, weeping for my sins: Had I been a good father, he had been a gracious son. Why taintest thou then the air with stench of flesh, And humane putrefactions noisome sent? I pray his body. Who less boon can crave, Than to bestow upon the dead, his graven? Peace, peace: Me thinks I hear a humming murmur creep From out his gelli wounds. Look on those lips, Those now lawn pillows, on whose tender softness, Chaste modest speech, stealing from out his breast, Had wont to rest it self, as loath to post From out so fair and Inn: look, look, they seem to stir, And breath defiance to black obloquy. A wise man wrongfully, but never wrong Can take: his breast's of such well tempered proof, It may be raced, not pierced by savage tooth Of foaming malice: showers of darts may dark Heavens ample brow: but not strike out a spark; Much less pierce the Suns cheek. Such songs as these, I often dittied till my boy did sleep: But now I turn plain fool (alas) I weep. Andrugio's dead! My Lord, the clapper of my mouth's not glibd With court oil, 'twill not strike on both sides yet. Command then joust and honourable things. Beware, take heed least guiltless blood be spilled. Where more than noble deeds to kings are free, It is no empire, but a tyranny. Oh, but that prince that worthful praise aspires, From hearts, and not from lips, applause desires. 'Tis praise to do, not what we can, but should. Defiance to thy power, thou rifted Jawn. Now, by the loved heaven, sooner thou shalt Rince thy soul ribs from the black filth of sin, That soots thy heart, then make me wretched. Pish, Thou canst not coupe me up. Hadst thou a Jail With treble walls, Like antic Babylon, Pandulpho can get out. I tell thee Duke, I have old Fortunatus wishing cap: And can be where I list, even in a trice. I'll skip from earth into the arms of heaven: And from tryumphall arch of blessedness, Spit on thy frothy breast. Thou canst not slave Or banish me; I will be free at home, Maugre the beard of greatness. The port holes Of sheathed spirit are never corbed up: But still stand open ready to discharge Their precious shot into the shrowds of heaven Go, boast unto thy flattering Sycophants; Pandulpho's slave, Piero hath orethrowne. Lose Fortune's rags are lost; my own's my own. 'Tis true Piero, thy vexed heart shall see, Thou hast but trip my slave, not conquered me. Black powers. Woe for my deer deer son. ANTONIO, kiss my foot: I honour thee, In laying thwart my blood upon thy breast. I tell thee boy, he was Pandulphos son: And I do grace thee with supporting him, Young man. The domineering Monarch of the earth, He who hath nought that Fortune's gripe can seize, He who is all impregnably his own, He whose great heart heaven can not force with force, Vouchsafes his love. Non servio Deo, said assentio. Didst find her good, or didst thou make her good? If found, thou mayest refined, 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 blessed man that lost her while she was good, Fair, young, unblemished, constant, loving, chaste. I tell thee youth, age knows, young loves seem graced, Which with grey cares, rude jars, are oft defaced. May be, may be: but that, which may be, stood, Stands now without all may; she died good, And dost thou grieve? I live encompassed with two blessed souls. Thou lost a good wife, thou lost a true friend, would? Two of the rarest lendings of the heavens: But lendings: which at the fixed day of pay Set down by fate, thou must restore again. Oh 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, cuz? 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 betwixt two hearts) As 'tis to find a fixed modest heart, Under a painted breast. Lost a true friend? Oh happy soul that lost him while he was true. Believe it cuz, I to my tears have found, Oft durts respect makes firmer friends unsound. Why there's the continued ̄ fort ont, that he was good: Alas, poor innocent. Would, dost ask me why? would? would? Good cuz, look here. Man will break out, despite Philosophy. Why, all this while I would but played a partly, 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 spoke more then a God; Yet am less then a man. I am the miserablest soul that breathes. Wilt still be so? and shall you bloodhound live? I'll know it all; first let's inter the dead: Let's dig his graven, with that shall dig the heart, Liver, and entrails of the murderer. No, no song: 'twill be vile out of tune. Now swear we by this Gordian knot of love, By the fresh turned up mould that wraps my son; By the dead brow of triple Hecate : Ere night shall close the lids of you bright stars, Weel fit as heavy on Pieros heart, As Aetna does on groaning Pelorus. Like high-swollen floods, driven down the mud die dammes Of penned allegiance. Oh, my lusty bloods, Heaven sits clapping of our enterprise. I have been labouring general favour firm, And I do find the citizens grown sick With swallowing the bloody crudities Of black Pieros acts; they feign would cast And vomit him from off their government. Now is the plot of mischief ripped wide open: Letters are found betwixt Strotzo and the Duke, So clear apparent: yet more firmly strong By suiting circumstance; that as I walked Muffled, to eues-drop speech, I might observe The graver Statesmen whispering fearfully. Here one gives nods & hums, what he would speak: The rumour's God among troop of citizens, Making loud murmur, with confused din: One shakes his head, and sighs; Oh ill used pour: Another frets, and sets his grinding teeth, Foaming with rage; and swears this must not be. Here one complots, and on a sudden starts, And cries; o monstrous, o deep villainy! All knit there nerves, and from beneath swollen brows Appears a gloating eye of much mislike: While swart Pieros lips reak steam of wine, Swallows lust-thoughts, devours all pleasing Hope's, With strong imagination of, what not? Oh, now Vindictam ; that's the word we have: A royal vengeance, or a royal graven. Who's there? sir Geoffrey? What chance of fortune hath trip up his heels, And laid him in the kennel? would? Oh now, he that wants soul to kill a slave, Let him die slave, and rot in peasants graven. Weel spoil your oratory. Out with his tonge. Grinst thou, thou snurling cur? He weeps: now do I glorify my hands, I had no vengeance, if I had no tears. Was he thy flesh, thy son, thy dearest son? So was Feliche my dearest son. Remorse was banished, when thou slewest my son. Thy son? true: and which is my most joy, I hope no bastard, but thy very blood Thy true begotten, most legitimate And loved issue: there's the comfort ont. Sa, sa; no, let him die, and die, and still be dying, And yet not die, till he hath died and died Ten thousand death's in agony of heart. This for my son. Murder for murder, blood for blood does yell. No: mine. By yond bright spangled front of heaven it I: It I sluc't out his life blood. We know the world, and did we know no more, We would not live to know: but since constraint Of holy bans forceth us keep this lodge Of durts corruption, till dread power calls Our souls appearance, we will live enclosed In holy verge of some religious order, Most constant votaries.