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Bayes. Why, that's a Prince I make in love with Parthenope.
Smi. I thank you, Sir.
Enter Cordelio.
Cor. My Leiges, news from Volscius the Prince.
Ush. His news is welcome, whatsoe'er it be.
Smi. How, Sir, do you mean that? whether it be good or bad?
Bayes. Nay, pray, Sir, have a little patience: Godsookers you'l spoil all my Play. Why, Sir, 'tis impossible to answer every impertinent question you ask.
Smi. Cry you mercie, Sir.
Cor. His Highness Sirs, commanded me to tell you,
That the fair person whom you both do know,
Despairing of forgiveness for her fault,
In a deep sorrow, twice she did attempt
Upon her precious life; but, by the care
Of standers-by, prevented was.
Smi. 'Sheart, what stuff's here!
Cor. At last,
Volscius the great this dire resolve embrac'd:
His servants he into the Country sent,
And he himself to Piccadillè went.
Where he's inform'd, by Letters, that she's dead.
Ush. Dead! is that possible? Dead!
Phys. O ye Gods! [Exeunt.
Bayes. There's a smart expression of a passion; O ye Gods! That's one of my bold strokes, a gad.
Smi. Yes; but who is the fair person that's dead?
Bayes. That you shall know anon.
Smi. Nay, if we know it at all, 'tis well enough.
Bayes. Perhaps you may find too, by and by, for all this, that she's not dead neither.
Smi. Marry, that's good news: I am glad of that with all my heart.
Bayes. Now, here's the man brought in that is suppos'd to have kill'd her. [A great shout within.
Enter
