_Y. M_. All pious thoughts that lately fild this spheare Are scatterd with the winds that issu'd from thee, Which, like the infectious yawning of a hill, Belching forth death inevitable, Has distroyd freindship and nature in me. Thou canst not poyson worse: I can feed now, Feed and nere burst with mallice. Sing, Syren, sing And swell me with revenge sweet as the straines Falls from the _Thrasian_ lyre; charme each sence With musick of Revenge, let Innocence In softest tunes like the expiring Swann Dy singing her owne Epitaph. _Alex_. What meane you, sir? are you mad? goe to and goe to; you doe not use me well; I say and I say, you do not. Have I this for my love to you and your good Mother? Why, I might be your Father by my age, which is falne on me in my old Mrs service; he would have used me better. _Y. M_. Dost weepe, old Crocodile? looke dost see this sword. _Alex_. Oh, I beseech you, sir; goe to; what meane you? _Y. M_. No harme to thee; this was my Fathers once, My honord Father; this did never view The glaring Sunn but in a noble cause, And then returnd home blushing with red spoyles, Which sung his fame and conquest. Goe, intreat My Mother be as pleasant as she was That night my Father got me. I am going, say, Most cheerfully to finish her comaund. _Alex_. Heaven prosper you. Ha! _Enter Thurston_. _Thu_. Freind, I was looking for you. _Y. M_. And you have found me, Villaine. _Thu_. What meane you? _Y. M_. If thou darst follow me I will conduct thee Unto the seate of death. _Thu_. Dare! Ile goe with thee, hand in hand; goe on. [_Exeunt ambo_. _Alex_. Goe, goe to and goe to, I say and I sait; here wilbe some revenge. If the Gent[leman] fall my lady has promist me a farme of 100 pounds a yeare; goe to, then. Now, if her sonn be slayne, heres then this purse of gold and this rich Jewell which she sent to him. By this wee see, whoever has the worst, The fox fares well, but better when hees curst.[121] Goe to and goe to then. [_Exit_. _Actus Quintus_. (SCENE 1.) _Enter Lady Marlowe sola_. _Lady_. Twas[122] here about; these are the poplars, this The yewe he named. How prettily thees trees Bow, as each meant to Consecrate a branch To the drownd lovers! and, methinks, the streame Pitt[y]ing their herse should want all funerall rights, Snatches the virgin lillies from his bankes To strow their watry sepulcher. Who would Desire an easier wafting to their death Then through this River? what a pleasing sound Its liquid fingers, harping on the stones, Yeilds to th'admiring eare! _Enter Thorowgood, Clariana, and Magdalen_. _Mag_. This way she went, Ime sure. She has deliv[er']d So many strang distractions that I feare Sheele act some wilfull violence on her selfe If we prevent it not. _Cla_. Yonder is somebody among the Trees Hard by the River: alasse, tis shee!