The Tragedy of
Upon thy pale lips I will melt my heart
To store them with fresh colour: who's there?
Some cordiall drinke: Alas! I dare not call:
So pitty, would destroy pitty: her Eye opes,
And heaven in it, seemes to ope, (that late was shut)
To take me up to merry.
Dutch.
Antonio.
Bos.
Yes (Madam) he is living,
The dead bodies you saw, were but faign'd statues;
He's reconcil'd to your brothers: the Pope hath wrought
The attonement.
Dutch.
Mercy. she dies.
Bos.
Oh, she's gone againe: there the cords of life broake:
Oh sacred Innocence, that sweetely sleepes
On Turtles feathers: whil'st a guilty conscience
Is a blacke Register, wherein is writ
All our good deedes, and bad: a Perspective
That showes us hell; that we cannot be suffer'd
To doe good when we have a mind to it?
This is manly sorrow:
These teares, I am very certaine, never grew
In my Mothers Milke. My estate is suncke
Below the degree of feare: where were
These penitent fountaines, while she was living?
Oh, they were frozen up: here is a sight
As direfull to my soule, as is the sword
Unto a wretch hath slaine his father: Come, I'll beare thee hence.
And execute thy last will; that's deliver
Thy body to the reverend dispose
Of some good women: that the cruell tyrant
Shall not denie me: Then I'll poast to Millaine,
Where some what I will speedily enact
Worth my dejection.Exit.
ACT.
