Ile call the Actors, will you see a play?
_Fre_. Or, gracious father, see me runne the race
On a light footed horse, swifter then winde.
_Duke_. I pray forbeare.
_Al_. This moode will make you mad,
For melancholy ushers franticke thoughts.
_Hat_. It makes hot wreaking blood turne cold and drie,
And drithe and coldnesse are the signes of death.
_Duke_. You doe torment me.
_Fred_. Is it anything
That I have done, offends your grace?
_Hat_. Or comes this hidden anger from my fault?
_Alf_. Heres none but gladly would resigne his life
To doe you pleasure, so please you to command.
_Duke_. Ifaith you are too [_sic_] blame to vexe me thus.
_Hat_. Then grounds this sorrow on your brothers death?
_Fred_. Or rather on the glove I lately found.
_Duke_. A plague upon the glove, whats that to me?
Your prating makes me almost lunatike.
As you respect my welfare, leave me leave me.
The sooner you depart, the sooner _I_
Shall finde some meanes to cure my maladie.
_Fred_. Our best course is to be obedient.
[_Exeunt all but the Duke_.
Pages:
262
263
264
265
266
267
268
269
270
271
272
273
274
275
276
277
278
279
280
281
282
283
284
285
286