_Sos_. Me thinkes my speach reveales a hidden feare, And that feare telles me that the childe is dead. _Fall_. By sweete _S. Andrew_ and my fathers soule, I thinke the peevish boy be too too well But speake, who was your passions harbinger? _Sos_. One that did kindle my misdoubting thoughts, With the large flame of his timiddity. _Fall_. Oh then I know the tinder of your feare. Was young _Allenso_ your white[37] honnie sonne. Confusion light upon his timerous head, For broching this large streame of fearefulnesse! And all the plagues that damned furies feele For their forepassed bold iniquities, Afflict you both for thus preventing me! _Sos_. Preventing you! of what? _Fallerio_, speake, For if you doe not my poore hart will breake. _Fall_. Why of the good that I had purposed, To young _Pertillo_, which I would conceale From you and him until the deed were done. _Sost_. If it were good, then we affect him deare, And would add furtherance to your enterprise. _Fall_. I say your close eaves-dropping[38] pollicies Have hindred him of greater benefits Then I can ever do him after this.-- If he live long, and growe to riper sinne, [_To the people_. Heele cursse you both, that thus have hindered His freedom from this goale of sinfull flesh.-- But let that passe, when went your harebrainde sonne, That Cuckow, vertue-singing, hatefull byrde, To guarde the safetie of his better part, Which he hath pend within the childish coope Of young _Pertillos_ sweete securitie? _Sost_. That lovely sonne, that comfort of my life, The root of vertuous magnamitie, That doth affect with an unfained love, That tender boy, which under heavens bright eye, Deserveth most to be affected deare, Went some two houres after the little boy Was sent away to keepe[39] at _Padua_. _Fall_. What, is a lovelie? he's a loathsome toade, A one eyde _Cyclops_, a stigmaticke[40] brat, That durst attempt to contradict my will, And prie into my close intendements. _Enter Alenso sad_. Mas, here a comes: his downcast sullen looke, Is over-waigh'd with mightie discontent.-- I hope the brat is posted to his sire, That he is growne so lazie of his pace; Forgetfull of his dutie, and his tongue Is even fast tyde with strings of heavinesse.-- Come hether, boye! sawst thou my obstacle, That little _Dromus_ that crept into my sonne, With friendly hand remoov'd and thrust away? Say, I, and please me with the sweetest note That ever relisht in a mortals mouth. _Allen_. I am a Swan that singe, before I dye, Your note of shame and comming miserie. _Fall_. Speake softly, sonne, let not thy mother heare; She was almost dead before for very feare.