_Cam._ Nothing but sad and silent melancholy, Laden with griefs and thoughts, no man knows why neither; The good _Brandino_ Father to the Princess Used all the art and industry that might be, To free _Alphonso_ from this dull calamity, And seat him in his rule, he was his eldest And noblest too, had not fair nature stopt in him, For which cause this was chosen to inherit, _Frederick_ the younger. _Cle._ Does he use his Brother With that respect and honour that befits him? _Cam._ He is kept privately, as they pretend, To give more ease and comfort to his sickness; But he has honest servants, the grave _Rugio_, And Fryar _Marco_, that wait upon his Person. And in a Monastery he lives. _Men._ 'Tis full of sadness, To see him when he comes to his Fathers Tomb, As once a day that is his Pilgrimage, Whilst in Devotion, the Quire sings an Anthem: How piously he kneels, and like a Virgin That some cross Fate had cozen'd of her Love, Weeps till the stubborn Marble sweats with pity, And to his groans the whole Quire bears a _Chorus_. _Enter_ Frederick, Sorano, _with the Cabinet, and_ Podramo. _Cam._ So do I too. The King with his Contrivers, This is no place for us. [_Exeunt Lords._ _Fred._ This is a jewel, Lay it aside, what paper's that? _Pod._ A Letter, But 'tis a womans, Sir, I know by the hand, And the false Orthography, they write old Saxon. _Fred._ May be her ghostly Mother's that instructs her. _Sor._ No, 'tis a Cousins, and came up with a great Cake. _Fred._ What's that? _Sor._ A pair of Gloves the Dutchess gave her, For so the outside says. _Fred._ That other paper? _Sor._ A Charm for the tooth-ach, here's nothing but Saints and Crosses. _Fre._ Look in that Box, methinks that should hold secrets. _Pod._ 'Tis Paint, and curls of Hair, she begins to exercise. A glass of Water too, I would fain taste it, But I am wickedly afraid 'twill silence me, Never a Conduit-Pipe to convey this water. _Sor._ These are all Rings, Deaths-heads, and such _Memento's_ Her Grandmother, and worm-eaten Aunts left to her, To tell her what her Beauty must arrive at. _Fred._ That, that. _Pod._ They are written songs, Sir, to provoke young Ladies; Lord, here's a Prayer-Book, how these agree! Here's a strange union. _Sor._ Ever by a surfeit you have a julep set to cool the Patient. _Fred._ Those, those. _Sor._ They are Verses to the blest _Evanthe_. _Fred._ Those may discover, Read them out, _Sorano_. _To the blest_ Evanthe.