Sost.  If it were good, then we affect him deare, And would add furtherance to your enterprise.

Fall.  I say your close eaves-dropping[38] pollicies
Have hindred him of greater benefits
Then I can ever do him after this.—­
If he live long, and growe to riper sinne, [To the people. 
Heele cursse you both, that thus have hindered
His freedom from this goale of sinfull flesh.—­
But let that passe, when went your harebrainde sonne,
That Cuckow, vertue-singing, hatefull byrde,
To guarde the safetie of his better part,
Which he hath pend within the childish coope
Of young Pertillos sweete securitie?

Sost.  That lovely sonne, that comfort of my life,
The root of vertuous magnamitie,
That doth affect with an unfained love,
That tender boy, which under heavens bright eye,
Deserveth most to be affected deare,
Went some two houres after the little boy
Was sent away to keepe[39] at Padua.

Fall.  What, is a lovelie? he’s a loathsome toade,
A one eyde Cyclops, a stigmaticke[40] brat,
That durst attempt to contradict my will,
And prie into my close intendements.

    Enter Alenso sad.

Mas, here a comes:  his downcast sullen looke,
Is over-waigh’d with mightie discontent.—­
I hope the brat is posted to his sire,
That he is growne so lazie of his pace;
Forgetfull of his dutie, and his tongue
Is even fast tyde with strings of heavinesse.—­
Come hether, boye! sawst thou my obstacle,
That little Dromus that crept into my sonne,
With friendly hand remoov’d and thrust away? 
Say, I, and please me with the sweetest note
That ever relisht in a mortals mouth.

Allen.  I am a Swan that singe, before I dye, Your note of shame and comming miserie.

Fall.  Speake softly, sonne, let not thy mother heare; She was almost dead before for very feare.

Allen.  Would I could roare as instruments of warre,
Wall-battring Cannons, when the Gun powder
Is toucht with part of Etnas Element! 
Would I could bellow like enraged Buls,
Whose harts are full of indignation,
To be captiv’d by humaine pollicie! 
Would I could thunder like Almightie Ioue,
That sends his farre-heard voice to terrifie
The wicked hearts of earthly citizens! 
Then roaring, bellowing, thundring, I would say,
Mother, lament, Pertillos made away!

Sost.  What, is he dead?  God give me leave to die,
And him repentance for his treacherie!
                          [Falleth down and dyeth.

Fall.  Never the like impietie was done: 
A mother slaine, with terror of the sonne! 
Helpe to repaire the damadge thou hast made,
And seeke to call back life with dilligence.

Allen.  Call back a happy creature to more woe! 
That were a sinne:  good Father, let her go.
0 happy I, if my tormenting smart,
Could rend like her’s, my griefe-afflicted heart! 
Would your hard hart extend unto your wife,
To make her live an everdying life? 
What, is she dead? oh, then thrice happy she,
Whose eyes are bard from our callamitie!