_Al_. This moode will make you mad, For melancholy ushers franticke thoughts. _Hat_. It makes hot wreaking blood turne cold and drie, And drithe and coldnesse are the signes of death. _Duke_. You doe torment me. _Fred_. Is it anything That I have done, offends your grace? _Hat_. Or comes this hidden anger from my fault? _Alf_. Heres none but gladly would resigne his life To doe you pleasure, so please you to command. _Duke_. Ifaith you are too [_sic_] blame to vexe me thus. _Hat_. Then grounds this sorrow on your brothers death? _Fred_. Or rather on the glove I lately found. _Duke_. A plague upon the glove, whats that to me? Your prating makes me almost lunatike. As you respect my welfare, leave me leave me. The sooner you depart, the sooner _I_ Shall finde some meanes to cure my maladie. _Fred_. Our best course is to be obedient. [_Exeunt all but the Duke_. _Duke_. Farewell. Was ever slave besotted like to me! That Kings have lov'd those that they never saw Is nothing strange, since they have heard their praise; Birds that by painted grapes have bin deceiv'd Had yet some shadow to excuse their error; _Pigmalion_ that did love an Ivory Nimph Had an _Idea_ to delight his sence; The youth that doted on _Minerva's_[177] picture Had some contentment for his eye; [_soft Musique_. But love, or rather an infernall hagge, Envying _Saxons_ greatnes and his joyes, Hath given me nothing but a trifling glove, As if by the proportion of the case Art had the power to know the jewels nature. Or Nimph, or goddesse, woman, or faire devill, If anything thou art, within my braine Draw thine owne picture, let me see thy face: To doate thus grossely, is a grosse disgrace. [_Musique within_. I heare some Musique: O ye Deities, Send you this heavenly consort[178] from the spheares To recreate a love-perplexed heart? The more it sounds, the more it refresheth. I see no instruments, nor hands that play; And my deare brothers, durst not be so bold. 'Tis some celestiall rapture of the minde, No earthlie harmonic is of this kinde. Now it doth cease: speake, who comes there? _Enter Fredericke, Alfred, and Hatto_. _Fred_. Father. _Duke_. From whence proceeds the Musicke that I heard? _Fred_. The beauteous and the famous Curtezan, Allyed unto the banished _Montano_, Admir'd _Valentia_, with a troope of youths This day doth keepe her yeerely festivall To all her suters, and this way she past Unto her Arbor, when the Musique plaide. _Duke_. Admir'd _Valentia_! Curtezans are strange With us in _Germanie_; except her selfe, Being a _Venetian_ borne and priviledg'd, The state allowes none here. _Fred_. Twere good for _Meath_ She were unpriviledgd and sent to _Venice_. _Al_. Of all the faces that mine eye beheld Hers is the brightest. _Duke_. Is she then so faire? _Hat_. O beyond all comparison of beautie. _Fred_. Upon her hand, Father, I saw the fellow to your glove.