THEO. I should not think so, if I weigh'd him only, As he's thy kinsman. I have been inform'd He labours underhand to apprehend thee Just at the assizes now, and has laid plots To stop all pardons, which in that short time Might be procur'd: and then what bribes may do In hastening execution, do but consider. If this be false, some courtiers have abus'd His fame: and pardon me, my dearest friend, If I suspect the worst for fear of thee. EUG. When I consider what accurs'd effects Proceed from wretched avarice, I begin To feel a fear. THEO. This very age hath given Horrid examples lately: brothers have been Betray'd by brothers in that very kind. When pardons have been got by the next heirs, They have arriv'd too late. No tie so near, No band so sacred, but the cursed hunger Of gold has broke it, and made wretched men To fly from nature, mock religion, And trample under feet the holiest laws. EUG. He has been ever noted for that vice Which, with his age, has still grown stronger in him. THEO. Ah, Eugeny! how happy were that last Age of a man, when long experience Has taught him knowledge, taught him temperance, And freed him from so many loose desires In which rash youth is plung'd, were not this vice-- But hark, hark, friend! what ravishing sound is that? EUG. Ha! wondrous sweet! 'tis from th' adjoining thicket. _Song._ _This is not the Elysian grove;_ _Nor can I meet my slaughter'd love_ _Within these shades. Come, Death, and be_ _At last as merciful to me,_ _As in my dearest Scudmore's fall,_ _Thou show'dst thyself tyrannical._ _Then did I die when he was slain;_ _But kill me now, I live again,_ _And shall go meet him in a grove_ _Fairer than any here above._ _O, let this woful breath expire!_ _Why should I wish Evadne's fire,_ _Sad Portia's coals, or Lucrece' knife,_ _To rid me of a loathed life?_ _'Tis shame enough that grief alone_ _Kills me not now, when thou art gone!_ _But, life, since thou art slow to go,_ _I'll punish thee for lasting so;_ _And make thee piecemeal every day_ _Dissolve to tears, and melt away._ THEO. Ah, Eugeny! some heavenly nymph descends To make thee music in these desert woods, To quench or feed thy baleful melancholy: It is so sweet, I could almost believe, But that 'tis sad, it were an angel's voice. EUG. What, in the name of miracle, is this? THEO. Remove not thou; I'll make discovery Within this thicket. EUG. Ha! what means thy wonder? What dost thou see?