_Pand._ My best Lord? As far as sorrow will give leave, most welcome; This _Virolet_ was, and but a Son of mine, I might say, the most hopeful of our Gentry; And though unfortunate, never ignoble: But I'll speak him no farther. Look on this, This face, that in a savage would move pitty, The wonder of her Sex, and having said 'Tis _Juliana_, Eloquence will want words To set out her deservings; this blest Lady That did indure the Rack, to save her Husband, That Husband, who, in being forc'd to leave her, Indur'd a thousand tortures; by what practise, I know not, (but 'twas sure a cunning one) Are made, the last I hope, but sad examples Of _Ferrands_ tyranny. Convey the bodies hence. _Sess._ Express your sorrow In your revenge, not teares, my worthy Soldiers: That fertile earth that teem'd so many children, To feed his cruelty, in her wounded wombe, Can hardly now receive 'em. _Boats._ We are cold, Cold walls shall not keep him from us. _Gun._ Were he cover'd with mountains, and room only for a Bullet to be sent level at him, I would speed him. _M[r]._ Let's scale this petty Tower; at Sea we are Falcons, And fly unto the main top in a moment. What then can stop us here? _1 Cit._ We'll tear him piece-meal. _2 Cit._ Or eat a passage to him. _Ses._ Let discretion Direct your anger; that's a victory, Which is got with least loss, let us make ours such: And therefore friends, while we hold parley here, Raise your scalado on the other side, But enter'd wreak your suffrings. [_Exit Saylors and Soldiers._ _1 Cit._ In our wrongs: There was no mean. _2 Cit._ Nor in our full revenge Will we know any. _Sess._ Be appeas'd good man, No sorrow can redeem them from deaths Prison; What his inevitable hand hath seiz'd on, The world cannot recover. All the comfort That I can give to you, is to see vengeance Pour'd dreadfully upon the Authors head, Of which their ashes may be sensible, That have fain by him. [_Sound a parley._ _Enter_ Ferrand, Martia, Ascanio, _and_ Ronvere, _above._ _Pand._ They appear.