_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!
_Fall_.
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