_Boy_. I had rather watch, Sir, If you sitt up, for I know you will wake me. _Leid_. Indeed I will not; goe, I have much to doe; Prethee to bed; I will not waken thee. _Boy_. Pray, Sir, leave wryting till to morrow. _Leid_. Why, Boy? _Boy_. You slept but ill last night, and talkd in your sleep, too; Tumbled and tooke no rest. _Leid_. I ever doe soe. Good Boy, to bed; my busines is of waight And must not be deferrd: good night, sweet Boy. _Boy_. My father was not wont to be so kind To hug me and to kisse me soe. _Leid_. Why do'st thou weep? _Boy_. I cannot tell, but sure a tendernes, Whether it be with your kind words unto me Or what it is, has crept about my hart, Sir, And such a sodaine heavynes withall, too. _Leid_.--Thou bringst fitt mourners for my funerall. _Boy_. But why do you weep, father? _Leid_. O, my Boy, Thy teares are dew-drops, sweet as those on roses, But mine the faint and yron sweatt of sorrow. Prethee, sweet Child, to bed; good rest dwell with thee, And heaven returne a blessing: that's my good Boy. [_Exit boy_. --How nature rises now and turnes me woman When most I should be man! Sweet hart, farewell, Farewell for ever. When we get us children We then doe give our freedoms up to fortune And loose that native courage we are borne to. To dye were nothing,--simply to leave the light; No more then going to our beds and sleeping; But to leave all these dearnesses behind us, These figures of our selves that we call blessings, Is that which trobles. Can man beget a thing That shalbe deerer then himself unto him? --Tush, _Leidenberch_: thinck what thou art to doe; Not to play _Niobe_ weeping ore her Children, Unles that _Barnavelt_ appeere againe And chide thy dull-cold nature.--He is fast: [_Son abed_. Sleepe on, sweet Child, the whilst thy wreatched father Prepares him to the yron sleepe of death. Or is death fabled out but terrable To fright us from it? or rather is there not Some hid _Hesperides_, some blessed fruites Moated about with death. Thou soule of _Cato_, And you brave _Romaine_ speritts, famous more For your true resolutions on yourselves Then Conquest of the world, behold, and see me An old man and a gowne man, with as much hast And gladnes entertaine this steele that meetes me As ever longing lover did his mistris. --So, so; yet further; soe. _Boy within_. Oh! _Leid_. Sure the Boy wakes And I shalbe prevented. _Boy_. Now heaven blesse me. O me, O me! _Leid_. He dreames and starts with frightings. I bleed apace but cannot fall: tis here; This will make wider roome. Sleep, gentle Child, And do not looke upon thy bloody father, Nor more remember him then fitts thy fortune. --Now shoot your spightes, now clap on all your councells; Here is a constant frend will not betray me. I, now I faint; mine eies begin to hunt For that they have lost for ever, this worldes beutie-- O oh, ô oh! my long sleepe now has ceizd me. _Enter Boy_.