And art can study for thee, rich in all things These treasures nothing to thy mother's love, Har. O take heed, mother. Heaven has a specious ear, and power to punish Queen. Thou art dejected. Have but a will, and live. Har. 'Tis in vain, mother. Queen. Sink with a fever into earth! Look up, thou shalt not die. Har. I have a wound within, You do not see, more killing than all fevers. Queen. A wound? where? who has murther'd thee? Har. Gotharus Queen. Ha! furies persecute him. Har. O pray for him: It is my duty, though he gave me death. He is my father. Queen. How, thy father? Har. He told me so, and with that breath destroy'd me. I felt it strike upon my spirits, mother; Would I had ne'er been born! Queen. Believe him not. Har. Oh do not add another sin to what Is done already; Weath is charitable, To quit me from the scorn of all the world. Queen. By all my hopes, Gotharus has abused thee. Thou art the lawful burthen of my womb; Thy father Altomarus. Har. Ha! Queen. Before whose spirit (long since taken up To meet with saints and troops angelical) I dare again repeat, thou art his son. Har. Ten thousand blessings now reward my mother! Speak it again, and I may live: a stream Queen. Were it my latest breath; Har. Enough, my tears do flow To give you thanks for 't; I would you could resolve me But one truth more: why did my lord Gotharus Call me the issue of his blood? Queen. Alas, He thinks thou art. Har. What are those words? I am Undone again. Queen. Ha! Har. 'Tis too late To call 'em back. He thinks I am his son. Queen. I have confess'd too much, and tremble with The imagination. Fc:give me, child, And heaven, if there be mercy to a crime So black, as I must now, to quit thy fears, His active brain for thy advancement, by But thou hast no such stain; thy birth is innocent, Or may I perish ever: 'tis a strange A balsam to thy wound. Live, my Hïaraldus, And with what tears I'll wash away my sin. Queen. Thou art not. Har. But I am not found, while you are lost. No time Can restore you. My spirits faint Queen. Will nothing comfort thee? Har. Give me your blessing; and, within my heart, THE BROTHERS: A COMEDY. BY JAMES SHIRLEY. Don Ramires leaves his son. Fernando with a heavy curse, and a threat of disinheriting, if he do not renounce Felisarda, the poor niece of Don Carlos, whom he courts, when by his father's command he should address Jacinta, the daughter and rich keiress of Carlos, kis younger brother Francisco's Mistress. Fer. Why does not all the stock of thunder fall 7 Or the fierce winds, from their close caves let loose, Now shake me into atoms? Fran. Fie, noble brother, what can so deject Your masculine thoughts is this done like Fernando, With patience of a martyr? I observed Fer. Yes, Francisco: He hath left his curse upon me. Fran. How? Fer. His curse: dost comprehend what that word carries, Shot from a father's angry breath 1 unless I tear poor Felisarda from my heart, He hath pronounc'd me heir to all his curses. Does this fright thee, Francisco? Thou hast cause To dance in soul for this: 'tis only I Must lose, and mourn; thou shalt have all; I am • Mamillus in the Winter's Tale in this manner droops and dies from a conceit of his mother's dishonor. Degraded from my birth, while he affects Thy progress with Jacinta, in whose smiles Thou may'st see all thy wishes waiting for thee; Don Ramires is seized with a mortal sickness, but forbids Fernando to approach kis chamber till he shali send for him, on pain of his dying curse. FERNANDO. Fer. This turn is fatal, and affrights ine; but Enter Servant and Physician. Ser. Make haste, I beseech you, doctor. Phy. Noble Fernando. Fer. As you would have men think your art is meant Not to abuse mankind, employ it all To cure my poor sick father. Phy. Fear it not, sir. [Exeunt Physician and Servant. Fer. But there is more than your thin skill requir'd, To state a health, your recipes, perplext With tough names, are but mockeries and noise, Enter Servant. Ser. Oh sir, I am sent for the confessor, And, having made him heir, he's loth your presence Fer. Francisco may be honest, yet methinks Enter Confessor and Servant. Fer. Do my holy office. Those fond philosophers that magnify Our human nature, and did boast we had To cells, and unfrequented woods, they knew not Else they had taught, our reason is our loss, [Exil. [Exit. |