Call it a burthen, for it seemes so great
And heavie burthen, that the boy should live
And thrust me from this height of happinesse,
That I will not indure so heavie waight,
But shake it off, and live at libertie,
Free from the yoake of such subjection.
The boy shall dye, were he my fathers sonne,
Before ile part with my possession.
Ile call my sonne, and aske his good advice,
How I may best dispatch this serious cause.--
Hoe, sir, _Allenso_!
_Alle_. Father.
_Fall_. Hearken, sonne.
I must intreate your furtherance and advise
About a thing that doth concerne us neere.
First tell me how thou doost affect in heart
Little _Pertillo_, thy dead Unckles sonne.
_Allen_. So well, good father, that I cannot tell,
Whether I love him dearer then my selfe;
And yet if that my heart were calde to count,
I thinke it would surrender me to death,
Ere young _Pertillo_ should sustain a wrong.
_Fall_. How got his safetie such a deepe regarde
Within your heart, that you affect it so?
_Allen_. Nature gave roote; love, and the dying charge,
Of his dead father, gives such store of sap
Unto this tree of my affection
That it will never wither till I dye.
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