_Val_. Uncharitable youth, I am no serpent venom'd,
No basiliske to kill thee with my sight.
_Fre_. Then thou speak'st death, I am sorry I mistooke;
They both are fatall, theres but little choice;
The first inthral'd my father, the last me,
No deadlier swords ever us'd enemie;
My lot's the best that I dye with the sound,
But he lives dying in a death profound.
I grow too bitter, being so neere my end;
Speake quickly, boldly, what your thoughts intend.
_Valen_. Behold this warrant, you can reade it well.
_Fred_. But you the interpretation best can tell:
Speake, beautious ruine, twere great injurie
That he should reade the sentence that must dye.
_Val_. Then know in briefe 'tis your fathers pleasure.
_Fred_. His pleasure, what?
_Val_. That you must loose your life.
_Fred_. Fatall is his pleasure, 'tis to please his wife.
I prethee, tell me, didst thou ever know
A Father pleased his sonne to murder so?
For what is't else but murder at the best?
The guilt whereof will gnawe him in his brest,
Torment him living, and when I am dead
Curse thee by whose plot I was murdered?
I have seene the like example, but, O base!
Why doe I talke with one of your disgrace?
Where are the officers? I have liv'd too long,
When he that gave me life does me this wrong.
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