GISMUNDA. I thank my father, and thee, gentle squire, For this thy travail; take thou, for thy pains, This bracelet, and commend me to the king. [RENUCHIO _departeth_. So, now is come the long-expected hour, The fatal hour I have so looked for; Now hath my father satisfied his thirst With guiltless blood, which he so coveted. What brings this cup? Ah me! I thought no less, It is mine Earl's, my County's pierced heart. Dear heart, too dearly hast thou bought my love; Extremely rated at too high a price! Ah, my sweet heart, sweet wast thou in thy life, But in thy death thou provest passing sweet. A fitter hearse than this of beaten gold Could not be 'lotted to so good an heart: My father therefore well provided thus To close and wrap thee up in massy gold, And therewithal to send thee unto me, To whom of duty thou dost best belong. My father hath in all his life bewray'd A princely care and tender love to me; But this surpasseth--in his later days To send me this, mine own dear heart, to me. Wert thou not mine, dear heart, whilst that my love Danced and play'd upon thy golden strings? Art thou not mine, dear heart, now that my love Is fled to heaven, and got him golden wings? Thou art mine own, and still mine own shalt be, Therefore my father sendeth thee to me. Ah, pleasant harborough[81] of my heart's thought! Ah, sweet delight, the quickener of my soul! Seven times accursed be the hand that wrought Thee this despite, to mangle thee so foul: Yet in this wound I see mine own true love, And in this wound thy magnanimity, And in this wound I see thy constancy. Go, gentle heart, go rest thee in thy tomb, Receive this token at thy last farewell. [_She kisseth it_. Thine own true heart anon will follow thee, Which panting lusteth[82] for thy company. Thus hast thou run, poor heart! thy mortal race, And rid thy life from fickle fortune's snares; Thus hast thou lost this world and worldly cares, And of thy foe, to honour thee withal, Receiv'd a golden grave to thy desert. Nothing doth want to thy just funeral, But my salt tears to wash thy bloody wound: Which to the end thou might'st receive, behold My father sends thee in this cup of gold; And thou shalt have them, though I was resolv'd To shed no tears, but with a cheerful face Once did I think to wet thy funeral Only with blood and with no weeping eye. This done, forthwith my soul shall fly to thee; For therefore did my father send thee me. Ah, my pure heart! with sweeter company Or more content, how safer may I prove To pass to places all unknown with thee! Why die I not therefore? why do I stay? Why do I not this woful life forego, And with these hands enforce this breath away? What means this gorgeous glittering head-attire? How ill beseem these billaments[83] of gold Thy mournful widowhood? away with them-- [_She undresseth her hair_. So let thy tresses, flaring in the wind, Untrimmed hang about thy bared neck. Now, hellish furies, set my heart on fire,