_Fry._ Your false hopes deceive you, He's dead. _Lis. Clarange_ dead? _Fry._ I buried him; Some said he dy'd of melancholy, some of love, And of that fondness perish'd. _Lid._ O _Clarange_! _Clar._ Hast thou so much brave nature, noble _Lidian_, So tenderly to love thy Rivals memory? The bold _Lisander_ weeps too. _Fry._ I expected that you would bear this better. _Lid._ I am a man, Sir, and my great loss weigh'd duly-- _Fry._ His last words were After confession, live long, dear _Lidian_, Possess'd of all thy wishes; and of me He did desire, bathing my hand with tears, That with my best care, I should seek, and find you, And from his dying mouth prevail so with you, That you a while should leave your Hermits strictness, And on his Monument pay a tear or two, To witness how you lov'd him. _Lid._ O my heart! to witness how I lov'd him? would he had not Led me into his Grave, but sacrific'd His sorrows upon mine, he was my friend, My noble friend, I will bewail his ashes; His fortunes, and poor mine were born together, And I will weep 'em both; I will kneel by him, And on his hallow'd Earth do my last duties. I'll gather all the pride of Spring to deck him, Wood-bines shall grow upon his honour'd Grave; And as they prosper, clasp to shew our friendship, And when they wither, I'll dye too. _Clar._ Who would not Desire to dye, to be bewail'd thus nobly? _Fry._ There is a Legacy he hath bequeath'd you; But of what value I must not discover, Until those Rites and pious Ceremonies Are duly tender'd. _Lid._ I am too full of sorrow to be inquisitive. _Lis._ To think of his, I do forget mine own woes. _Enter_ Alcidon. _Alc._ Graze thy fill, now Thou hast done thy business; ha! who have we here? _Lisander, Lidian_, and two Reverend Fryars? What a strange scene of sorrow is express'd In different postures, in their looks and station! A common Painter eying these to help His dull invention, might draw to the life The living Sons of _Priam,_ as they stood On the pale Walls of _Troy_, when _Hector_ fell Under _Achilles's_ Spear; I come too late, My Horse, though good and strong, mov'd like a Tortoise; Ill News had wings, and hath got here before me. All _Pythagoreans_? not a word? _Lid._ O _Alcidon_-- Deep Rivers with soft murmurs glide along The shallow roar; _Clarange!_ _Lis. Cloridon_, _Chrysanthes_, spare my grief, and apprehend What I should speak. _Alc._ Their fates I have long since For your sakes mourn'd; _Clarange's_ death, for so Your silence doth confirm, till now I heard not; Are these the bounds that are prescrib'd unto The swelling seas of sorrow?