_Ment._ Murder'd Sir? My dreams abhor so base a fact; true valour Imploy'd to keep my reputation fair From the austerest Judge, can never merit To be branded with that title; you begot me A man, no coward; and but call your youth To memory, when injur'd, you could never Boast of the Asses fortitude, slave-like patience: And you might justly doubt I were your son, If I should entertain it; if _Cæsario_ Recover, as I hope his wound's not mortal, A second tryal of what I dare doe In a just cause, shall give strong witness for me I am the true heir to _Baptista's_ courage, As to his other fortunes. _Baptist._ Boy, to neither: But on this strict condition, which intreaties From Saints, nay Angels, shall not make me alter. A friendship so began, and so continu'd Between me and _Alberto_ my best friend, Your brawls shall not dissolve; it is my will, And as I am thy Father, I command thee, That instantly, on any termes, how poor So e'er, it skills not, thou desire his pardon, And bring assurance to me, he has sign'd it, Or by my Fathers soul I'll never know thee: But as a stranger to my blood; perform it, And suddenly, without reply, I have said it. _Ment._ And in it given a heavier sentence on me Than the most cruel death; you are my father And your will to be serv'd, and not disputed By me, that am your Son: But I'll obey, And though my heart-strings crack for't, make it known, When you command, my faculties are your own. [_Exeunt._ Actus Secundus. Scæna Prima. _Enter_ Alberto, Physitian, _and a_ Chirurgion. _Phys._ Have patience, Noble Sir; your son _Cæsario_ Will recover without question. _Surgeon._ A slight wound. Though it pierc't his body, it hath miss'd the vitals. _Phys._ My life for't, he shall take the air again within these ten dayes. _Alber._ O but from a friend, To receive this bloody measure from a friend! If that a man should meet a violent death, In a place where he had taken sanctuary, Would it not grieve him? such all _Florence_ held Their friendship, and 'tis that which multiplies The injury. _Physi._ Have patience worthy Signior. _Alber._ I do protest, as I am Man and Soldier, If I had buried him in a wave at Sea, (Lost in some honorable action) I would not, to the saltness of his grave, Have added the least tear; but these quarrels _Enter_ Mariana, _and_ Clarissa. Bred out of game and wine, I had as live He should have died of a Surfet. _Maria._ Oh what comfort! How is it with our Son Sir? _Alber._ His Work-masters Bear me in hand here, as my Lawyer does, When I have a crackt Title, or bad Sute in Law, All shall go well. _Maria._ I pray you Gentlemen, what think you of his wound.