_Palestra_.[71] Is this then the reward of Innocense, Of goodness to our selfes, namely chast lyfe, Pietye to our parents, love to all, And above all our Christian zeale towardes heaven? But why shoold wee poore wretches thus contest Against the powers above us, when even they That are the best amongst us are servd badd? Alas, I never yet wrongd man or child, Woman or babe; never supplanted frend Or sought revendge upon an enemy. You see yet howe we suffer; howe shall they then That false their faythes, that are of uncleane lyfe And then not only sinne unto them selves But tempt and persuade others? what shall I thinke Becoms of my base guardian? though the waves Have spared the guiltles, sure his putrid s[oule][72] Cannot escape heavens justyce! wee poor wretches Are punishe [_sic_] for his grosse impietyes, They mov'd heavens wrathe, who stir'd the winds and waves Stryvinge whose fury should destroy us fyrst. These boathe conspyringe in our ruinne, th'one Beate us belowe the billowes whilst the other Swallowed boathe shippe and goodes; [amongst] the rest A[73] budget or portmantau which includes All the bawdes wealth. But that weare nothinge to mee Though he had vowed and sworne to make mee his heyer; The losse I so lament is a small caskett Kept by him from my childhood, and packt up Amongst his treasure; and that perishinge, I forfett the longe expectation Ever to knowe my parents, therefore wishe With it I had i'th sea been buried. _Enter Scribonia_. _Scrib_. With perill of oft fallinge and the danger Of second deathe, having new scapt the fyrst, I have with feare and terror clim'd these rocks, And these too past I feare to meete a thyrd. I spy no howse, no harbor, meete no creature To point mee to some shelter; therefore heare Must starve by famine or expire by could. O'th sea the whystlinge winds still threaten wreckes, And flyinge nowe for refuge to the lande Find nought save desolation. Thoughe these three, Three dreadfull deaths all spare mee, yeat a fowerth, I cannot shoone [shun] in my _Palestras_ losse, More[74] deare to mee then all the world besides, For the best blood of myne runns in her veynes, This lyfe breath in her bosom. Oh my _Palestra_! _Palestr_. Numnes and feare, hungar and sollitude, Besydes my casket, my _Scribonia's_ losse, All these at once afflict mee. _Scrib_. Notheinge mee More than _Palestra's_ deathe. Ha, who's that spake? Suer twas som womans voyce! if my _Palestra_ Only for her sake I coulde wishe to live. _Pal_. Then lyve, my deere _Scribonia_, synce I am only Spar'd to partake with thee newe miseryes. _Scrib_. Scarce can I bee perswaded you are shee: But, bee yt but her shadowe, give mee leave For her remembrance to imbrace it thus. _Palest_. These armes at once locke all my lyvinge hopes In my restored _Scribonia_. _Scrib_. Nowe I perceave My comfort is not meare imaginary But reall and effectuall. Lyve you then? _Pal_. To triumphe in your safety.