_Allen_. Would I could roare as instruments of warre, Wall-battring Cannons, when the Gun powder Is toucht with part of _Etnas_ Element! Would I could bellow like enraged Buls, Whose harts are full of indignation, To be captiv'd by humaine pollicie! Would I could thunder like Almightie _Ioue_, That sends his farre-heard voice to terrifie The wicked hearts of earthly citizens! Then roaring, bellowing, thundring, I would say, Mother, lament, _Pertillos_ made away! _Sost_. What, is he dead? God give me leave to die, And him repentance for his treacherie! [_Falleth down and dyeth_. _Fall_. Never the like impietie was done: A mother slaine, with terror of the sonne! Helpe to repaire the damadge thou hast made, And seeke to call back life with dilligence. _Allen_. Call back a happy creature to more woe! That were a sinne: good Father, let her go. 0 happy I, if my tormenting smart, Could rend like her's, my griefe-afflicted heart! Would your hard hart extend unto your wife, To make her live an everdying life? What, is she dead? oh, then thrice happy she, Whose eyes are bard from our callamitie! _Fall_. I, all too soone, thou viper, paracide! But for thy tongue thy mother had not dyde: That belching voice, that harsh night-raven sound, Untimely sent thy mother to the ground: Upbraid my fault, I did deceive my brother; Cut out thy tongue, that slue thy carefull mother. _Allen_. God love my soule, as I in heart rejoyce To have such power in my death-bringing voice, See how in steade of teares and hartie sighes; Of foulded armes and sorrow-speaking lookes, I doe behold with cheerefull countenance The livelesse roote of my nativitie, And thanke her hasty soule that thence did goe To keep her from her sonne and husbandes woe.-- Now, father, give attention to my tale; I will not dip my griefe-deciphering tongue In bitter wordes of reprehension. Your deeds have throwne more mischiefes on your head Then wit or reason can remove againe; For to be briefe, _Pertillo_, (oh that name Cannot be nam'de without a hearty sigh!) Is murthered, and-- _Fal_. What and? this newes is good. _Allen_. The men which you suborn'd to murther him-- _Fal_. Better and better, then it cannot out, Unlesse your love will be so scripulous [_sic_] That it will overthrowe your selfe and me. _Allen_. The best is last, and yet you hinder me. The Duke of _Padua_ hunting in the wood, Accompanied with Lordes and Gentlemen-- _Fal_. Swones what of that? what good can come of that? _Allen_. Was made acquainted by the one of them, (That had some little remnant of his life) With all your practice and conspiracie. _Fall_. I would that remnant had fled quicke to hell, To fetch fierce fi[e]ndes to rend their carcases, Rather then bring my life in ieopardie! Is this the best? swones, doe you mocke me, sonne, And make a iest at my calamitie? _Allen_. Not I, good father; I will ease your woe, If you but yeeld unto my pollicie.