_Phil._ Why _Theodosia_? My sister; wake: alass, I griev'd but now To see the streets so full; and now I grieve To see them left so empty: I could wish, Tumult himself were here, that yet at least Amongst the band, I might espie some face So pale and fearful, that would willingly Embrace an arrand for a Cordial, Or _Aquavitæ_, or a cup of sack, Or a Physitian: but to talk of these She breaths: stand up, O _Theodosia_, Speak but as thou wert wont, give but a sigh, Which is but the most unhappy piece of life, And I will ever after worship sadness, Apply my self to grief; prepare and build Altars to sorrow. _Theo._ O _Philippo_, help me. _Phil._ I do; these are my arms, _Philippo_'s arms, Thy Brothers arms that hold thee up. _Theo._ You help me To life: but I would see _Antonio_ That's dead. _Phil._ Thou shalt see any thing; how dost thou? _Theo._ Better, I thank you. _Phil._ Why that's well: call up Thy senses, and uncloud thy cover'd spirits. How now? _Theo._ Recover'd: but _Antonio_, Where is he? _Phil._ We will find him: art thou well? _Theo._ Perfectly well, saving the miss of him; And I do charge you here, by our allyance, And by the love which would have been betwixt us, Knew we no kindred; by that killing fear, Mingled with twenty thousand hopes and doubts, Which you may think, plac'd in a Lovers heart, And in a Virgins too, when she wants help, To grant me your assistance, to find out This man alive, or dead; and I will pay you In service, tears, or prayers, a world of wealth: But other treasure, I have none: alas! You men have strong hearts; but we feeble maids Have tender eyes, which only given be To blind themselves, crying for what they see. _Phil._ Why do'st thou charge me thus? have I been found Slow to perform, what I could but imagine Thy wishes were; have I at any time Tender'd a business of mine own, beyond A vanity of thine? have I not been As if I were a sensless creature, made To serve thee without pow'r of questioning, If so, why fear'st thou? _Theo._ I am satisfied. _Phil._ Come; then let's go: where's _Leocadia_? _Theo._ I know not Sir. _Phil._ Where's _Leocadia_? _Theo._ I do not know. _Phil. Leocadia_, This Tumult made the streets as dead as night, A man may talk as freely: what's become Of _Leocadia_? _Theo._ She's run away. _Phil._ Begone, and let us never more behold Each others face, till we may, both together, Fasten our eyes on her: accursed be Those tender cozening names of charity, And natural affection, they have lost Me only by observing them, what cost Travel, and fruitless wishes may in vain Search through the world, but never find again.