VIR. Y' have lost a worthy and a hopeful son; But heaven, that always gives, will sometimes take, And that the best. There is no balsam left us To cure such wounds as these but patience; There is no disputing with the acts of heaven; But, if there were, in what could you accuse Those powers that else have been so liberal to you, And left you yet one comfort in your age, A fair and virtuous daughter. ROS. Now it begins. [_Aside._ VIR. Your blood is not extinct, nor your age childless: From that fair branch that's left may come much fruit To glad posterity: think on that, my lord. POL. Nay, heaven forbid I should repine, At what the justice of those powers ordain; It has pleased them to confine my care Only to one; and to see her well bestow'd Is all the comfort that I now must look for; But if it had pleas'd heaven that my son-- Ah, my Eugenio! [_He weeps._ VIR. Alas, good gentleman! ROS. 'Fore heaven, he does it rarely! [_Aside._ VIR. But, sir, remember yourself, remember your daughter; let not your grief for the dead make you forget the living, whose hopes and fortunes depend upon your safety. POL. O my good lord, you never had a son. ROS. Unless they were bastards, and for them no doubt but he has done as other lords do. [_Aside._ POL. And therefore cannot tell what 'tis to lose A son, a good son, and an only son. VIR. I would, my lord, I could as well redress, As I can take compassion of your grief: You should soon find an ease. POL. Pray pardon me, my lord, If I forget myself toward you at this time; If it please you to visit my house ofter, You shall be welcome. VIR. You would fain sleep, my lord, I'll take my leave. Heaven send you comfort! I shall make bold shortly To visit you. POL. You shall be wondrous welcome. Wait on my lord, out there. [_To Attend. Exit_ VIRRO. So, now he's gone: how thinkest thou, Roscio, Will not this gudgeon bite? ROS. No doubt, my lord, So fair a bait would catch a cunning fish. POL. And such a one is he; he ever lov'd The beauty of my girl, but that's not it Can draw the earthbred thoughts of his gross soul. Gold is the god of his idolatry, With hope of which I'll feed him, till at length I make him fasten, and, Ixion-like, For his lov'd Juno grasp an empty cloud. ROS. How stands my young lady affected to him? POL. There's all the difficulty; we must win her to love him. I doubt the peevish girl will think him too old; he's well near fifty. In this business I must leave somewhat to thy wit and care: praise him beyond all measure. ROS. Your lordship ever found me trusty. POL. If thou effect it, I will make thee happy. [_Exeunt._ _Enter_ PHILOCLES, CLERIMONT.