Of sharp impatience. Ah, Lucio, go unarm'd?
Come soul, resume the valour of thy birth;
Myself, myself, will dare all opposites:
I'll muster forces, an unvanquish'd power;
Cornets of horse shall press th' ungrateful earth,
This hollow wombed mass shall inly groan,
And murmur to sustain the weight of arms:
Ghastly amazement, with upstarted hair,
Shall hurry on before, and usher us,

Whilst trumpets clamour with a sound of death.

Luc. Peace, good my lord, your speech is all too light.
Alas! survey your fortunes, look what's left

Of all your forces, and your utmost hopes,

A weak old man, a page, and your poor self.

And. Andrugio lives, and a fair cause of arms;
Why that's an army all invincible.

He, who hath that, hath a battalion royal,
Armour of proof, huge troops of barbed steeds,
Main squares of pikes, millions of arquebuse.
Oh, a fair cause stands firm, and will abide;
Legions of angels fight upon her side.”

After the discovery of Antonio's plan of escape, Mellida flies in the disguise of a page. The meeting of Andrugio and his son, after this event, causes the ensuing dialogue.

"Ant. I were not worthy of Andrugio's blood,

If I denied my name's Antonio.

And. I were not worthy to be call'd thy father,

If I denied my name, Andrugio.

And dost thou live? Oh, let me kiss thy cheek,
And dew thy brow with trickling drops of joy.
Now heaven's will be done, for I have liv'd
To see my joy, my son Antonio.

Give me thy hand; now Fortune do thy worst,
His blood, that lapp'd thy spirit in the womb,
Thus (in his love) will make his arms thy tomb.

Ant. Bless not the body with your twining arms,
Which is accurs'd of heaven. Oh, what black sin
Hath been committed by our ancient house,
Whose scalding vengeance lights upon our heads,
That thus the world and fortune casts us out,
As loathed objects, ruin's branded slaves?

And. Do not expostulate the heavens' will:
But, oh, remember to forget thyself;
Forget remembrance what thou once hast been.

Come, creep with me from out this open air.
Even trees have tongues, and will betray our life.
I am a raising of our house, my boy,
Which fortune will not envy, 'tis so mean,

And (like the world) all dirt; there shalt thou rip
The inwards of thy fortunes, in mine ears,
Whilst I sit weeping, blind with passion's tears:
Then I'll begin, and we'll such order keep,
That one shall still tell griefs, the other weep.

Ant. I'll follow you.-Boy, prithee stay, a little.

Thou hast had a good voice, if this cold marsh,
Wherein we lurk, have not corrupted it.

Enter Mellida, standing out of sight in her Page's suit.

I prithee sing; but, sirrah, mark you me,
Let each note breathe the heart of passion,
The sad extracture of extremest grief.
Make me a strain speak groaning like a bell,
That tolls departing souls.

Breathe me a point that may enforce me weep,
To wring my hands, to break my cursed breast,
Rave and exclaim, lie groveling on the earth,
Straight start up frantic, crying, Mellida.
Sing but, Antonio hath lost Mellida,

And thou shalt see me (like a man possess'd)
Howl out such passion, that even this brinish marsh
Will squeeze out tears from out his spungy cheeks,
The rocks even groan, and—

Prithee, prithee sing,

Or I shall ne'er have done when I am in.

'Tis harder for me end, than to begin.

[Exit.

[The Boy runs a note, Antonio breaks it.

For look thee, boy, my grief that hath no end,

I may begin to plain, but-prithee sing."

The banished duke explains what it is to be a king, in some forcible lines.

"Why, man, I never was a prince till now.
'Tis not the bared pate, the bended knees,
Gilt tipstaffs, Tyrian purple, chairs of state,
Troops of pied butterflies, that flutter still
In greatness' summer, that confirm a prince :
'Tis not the unsavoury breath of multitudes,
Shouting and clapping with confused din,
That makes a prince. No, Lucio, he's a king,

A true right king, that dares do ought, save wrong,
Fears nothing mortal, but to be unjust;
Who is not blown up with the flattering puffs
Of spungy sycophants: who stands unmov'd,
Despite the justling of opinion:

Who can enjoy himself, maugre the throng
That strive to press his quiet out of him:
Who sits upon Jove's footstool, as I do,
Adoring, not affecting, majesty:

Whose brow is wreathed with the silver crown

Of clear content: this, Lucio, is a king.

And of this empire, every man's possess'd,
That's worth his soul."

Andrugio discovers himself to Piero.

"Then here, Piero, is Andrugio's head,
Royally casked in a helm of steel:

Give me thy love, and take it. My dauntless soul
Hath that unbounded vigour in his spirits,

That it can bear more rank indignity,

With less impatience, than thy canker'd hate
Can sting and venom his untainted worth,
With the most vip'rous sound of malice. Strike,
Oh, let no glimpse of honour light thy thoughts,
If there be any heat of royal breath
Creeping in thy veins, oh, stifle it.

Be still thyself, bloody and treacherous :
Fame not thy house with an admired act
Of princely pity. Piero, I am come
To soil thy house with an eternal blot
Of savage cruelty; strike, or bid me strike.
I pray my death, that thy ne'er dying shame
Might live immortal to posterity.

Come, be a princely hangman, stop my breath.

Oh, dread thou shame, no more than I dread death."

Feliche, being asked if he envies not the court, says:

"I wonder it doth not envy me.

Why, man, I have been borne upon the spirit's wings,

The soul's swift Pegasus, the phantasy;

And from the height of contemplation,
Have view'd the feeble joints men totter on.

I envy none; but hate, or pity all.

For when I view, with an intentive thought,

That creature fair, but proud; him rich, but sot;
The other witty, but unmeasured arrogant;
Him great, yet boundless in ambition;

Him high-born, but of base life; t'other fear'd,
Yet feared fears, and fears most to be most loved;
Him wise, but made a fool for public use;
The other learn'd but self-opinionate.
When I discourse all these, and see myself

Nor fair, nor rich, nor witty, great, nor fear'd;
Yet amply suited with all full content:

Lord, how I clap my hands, and smooth my brow,
Rubbing my quiet bosom, tossing up

A grateful spirit to Omnipotence !"

In Antonio's Revenge, we find that the reconciliation, at the conclusion of the last play, was altogether feigned on the part of Piero, who, at the feast which followed, infused poison in the cup in which he drank to the health of Andrugio, and caused his death. He next lays a scheme to entrap Antonio, and the first step he takes towards it is a false accusation against his own daughter's chastity, and the murder of Feliche as the pretended offender. He is finally caught in his own net, and is slain with most exquisite cruelty by Antonio and his friends.

We never read a prologue which, in tragic pomp and solemnity, equalled the one prefixed to this second part of Antonio and Mellida.

“The rawish dank of clumsy winter cramps
The fluent summer's vein: and drizzling sleet
Chilleth the wan bleak cheek of the numb'd earth,
Whilst snarling gusts nibble the juiceless leaves,
From the naked shudd'ring branch; and peels the skin
From off the soft and delicate aspects:

O now, methinks, a sullen tragic scene

Would suit the time with pleasing congruence.
May we be happy in our weak devoir,
And all part pleased in most wish'd content:
But sweat of Hercules can ne'er beget
So blest an issue. Therefore, we proclaim
If any spirit breathes within this round,
Incapable of weighty passion,

(As from his birth, being hugged in the arms,
And nuzzled twixt the breasts of happiness,)
Who winks, and shuts his apprehension up
From common sense of what men were, and are,

Who would not know what men must be; let such
Hurry amain from our black-visag'd shows :
We shall affright their eyes: But if a breast
Nail'd to the earth with grief; if any heart
Pierc'd thro' with anguish, pant within this ring:
If there be any blood, whose heat is choak'd
And stifled with true sense of misery:

If ought of these strains fill this concert up,
They arrive most welcome. O that our power
Could lackey, or keep wing with our desires;
That, with unused pace of style and sense,
We might weigh massy in judicious scale.
Yet here's the prop that doth support our hopes;
When our scenes faulter, or invention halts,
Your favour will give crutches to our faults."

Antonio is informed of the death of his father, and the slanderous accusation of Mellida.

"Ant. My father dead, my love attaint of lust: That's a large lie, as vast as spacious hell:

Poor guiltless lady. O accursed lie.

What, whom, whether, which shall I first lament?
A dead father, a dishonour'd wife. Stand.
Methinks I feel the frame of nature shake.

Crack not the joints of earth to bear my woes?
Alb. Sweet prince, be patient.

Ant. 'Slid, sir, I will not, in despite of thee.
Patience is slave to fools: a chain that's fix't
Only to posts, and senseless log-like dolts.

Alb. 'Tis reason's glory to command affects.
Ant. Lies thy cold father dead, his glossed eyes
New closed up by thy sad mother's hands?
Hast thou a love as spotless as the brow
Of clearest heaven, blurr'd with false defames?
Are thy moist entrails crumpled up with grief
Of parching mischiefs? Tell me, does thy heart
With punching anguish spur thy galled ribs ?
Then come, and let's sit and weep, and wreath our arms:
I'll hear thy counsel.

Alb. Take comfort

Ant. Confusion to all comfort: I defie it.

Comfort's a parasite, a flattering jack,

And melts resolv'd despair. O boundless woe,
If there be any black grief yet unknown,

If there be any horror yet unfelt,