The Tragedy of
I'll not come at them.
Bos.
This proclaimes your breeding.
Every small thing, drawes a base mind to feare:
As the Adamant drawes yron: fare you well sir,
You shall shortly heare from's. Exit.
Dutch.
I suspect some Ambush:
Therefore by all my love; I doe conjure you
To take your eldest sonne, and flye towards Millaine;
Let us not venture all this poore remainder
In one unlucky bottom.
Ant.
You councell safely:
Best of my life, farewell: Since we must part
Heaven hath a hand in't: but no otherwise,
Then as some curious Artist, takes in sunder
A Clocke, or Watch, when it is out of frame
To bring't in better order.
Dutch.
I know not which is best,
To see you dead, or part with you: Farewell Boy.
Thou art happy, that thou hast not understanding
To know thy misery: For all our wit
And reading, brings us to a truer sence
Of sorrow: In the eternall Church, Sir,
I doe hope we shall not part thus.
Ant.
Oh, be of comfort,
Make Patience a noble fortitude:
And thinke not how unkindly we are us'de:
"Man (like to Cassia) is prov'd best, being bruiz'd.
Dutch.
Must I like to a slave-borne Russian,
Account it praise to suffer tyranny?
And yet (O Heaven) thy heavy hand is in't.
I have seene my litle boy, oft scourge his top,
And compar'd my selfe to't: naught made me ere go right,
But Heavens scourge-sticke.
Ant.
Doe not weepe:
Heaven fashion'd us of nothing: and we strive,
To bring our selves to nothing: farewell Cariola,
And thy sweet armefull: if I doe never see thee more,
Be
