LUCRECE. Since when the princess hath entomb'd her lord, Her late deceased husband of renown; Brother, I see, and very well perceive, She hath not clos'd together in his grave All sparks of nature, kindness, nor of love: But as she lives, so living may she feel Such passions as our tender hearts oppress, Subject unto th'impressions of desire: For well I wot my niece was never wrought Of steel, nor carved from the stony rock: Such stern hardness we ought not to expect In her, whose princely heart and springing years Yet flow'ring in the chiefest heat of youth, Is led of force to feed on such conceits, As easily befalls that age, which asketh ruth Of them, whom nature bindeth by foresight Of their grave years and careful love to reach The things that are above their feeble force: And for that cause, dread lord, although-- TANCRED. Sister, I say, If you esteem or ought respect my life, Her honour and the welfare of our house, Forbear, and wade[55] no farther in this speech. Your words are wounds. I very well perceive The purpose of this smooth oration: This I suspected, when you first began This fair discourse with us. Is this the end Of all our hopes, that we have promised Unto ourself by this her widowhood? Would our dear daughter, would our only joy, Would she forsake us? would she leave us now, Before she hath clos'd up our dying eyes, And with her tears bewail'd our funeral? No other solace doth her father crave; But, whilst the fates maintain his dying life, Her healthful presence gladsome to his soul, Which rather than he willing would forego, His heart desires the bitter taste of death. Her late marriage hath taught us to our grief, That in the fruits of her perpetual sight Consists the only comfort and relief Of our unwieldy age: for what delight, What joy, what comfort, have we in this world; Now grown in years, and overworn with cares, Subject unto the sudden stroke of death, Already falling, like the mellowed fruit, And dropping by degrees into our grave? But what revives us, what maintains our soul Within the prison of our wither'd breast, But our Gismunda and her cheerful sight? O daughter, daughter! what desert of mine, Wherein have I been so unkind to thee, Thou shouldst desire to make my naked house Yet once again stand desolate by thee? O, let such fancies vanish with their thoughts: Tell her I am her father, whose estate, Wealth, honour, life, and all that we possess, Wholly relies upon her presence here. Tell her, I must account her all my joy, Work as she will: but yet she were unjust To haste his death, that liveth by her sight. LUCRECE. Her gentle heart abhors such ruthless thoughts. TANCRED. Then let her not give place to these desires. LUCRECE. She craves the right that nature challengeth. TANCRED. Tell her, the king commandeth otherwise. LUCRECE. The king's commandment always should be just. TANCRED. Whate'er it be, the king's command is just. LUCRECE. Just to command: but justly must he charge.