Dumb Shew. _Enter_ Violanta _at one door, we[e]ping, supported by_ Cornelia _and a Frier; at another door_, Angelina _weeping, attended by_ Dorothea. Violanta _kneels down for pardon_. Angelina _shewing remorse, takes her up, and cheers her; so doth_ Cornelia. Angelina _sends_ Dorothea _for_ Gerrard. _Enter_ Gerrard _with_ Dorothea: Angelina _and_ Cornelia _seem to_ _chide him, shewing_ Violanta's _heavy plight_: Violanta _rejoyceth in him: he makes signes of sorrow, intreating pardon_: Angelina _brings_ Gerrard _and_ Violanta _to the Frier; he joyns them hand in hand, takes a Ring from_ Gerrard, _puts it on_ Violanta's _finger; blesseth them_; Gerrard _kisseth her: the Frier takes his leave_. Violanta _makes shew of great pain, is instantly conveyed in by the Women_, Gerrard _is bid stay; he walks in meditation, seeming to pray. Enter_ Dorothea, _whispers him, sends him out. Enter_ Gerrard _with a Nurse blindfold; gives her a purse. To them Enter_ Angelina _and_ Cornelia _with an Infant; they present it to_ Gerrard; _he kisseth and blesseth it; puts it into the Nurses arms, kneels, and takes his leave_. Exeunt _all severally_. _Enter_ Benvoglio _and_ Randulpho. _Ben._ He's dead, you say then. _Rand._ Certainly: and to hear The people now dissect him now he's gone, Makes my ears burn, that lov'd him not: such Libels, Such Elegies and Epigrams they have made, More odious than he was. Brother, great men Had need to live by love, meting their deeds With virtues rule; sound, with the weight of judgement, Their privat'st action: for though while they live Their power and policie masque their villanies, Their bribes, their lust, pride, and ambition, And make a many slaves to worship 'em, That are their flatterers, and their bawds in these: These very slaves shall, when these great beasts dye, Publish their bowels to the vulgar eye. _Ben._ 'Fore Heaven 'tis true. But is _Rinaldo_ (brother) our good Duke, heard of living? _Rand._ Living, Sir, and will be shortly with the Senate: has Been close conceal'd at _Mantua_, and reliev'd: But what's become of his? no tidings yet? But brother, till our good Duke shall arrive, Carry this news, here. Where's your _Ferdinand_? _Ben._ Oh busie, Sir, about this marriage: And yet my Girl o'th' suddain is fall'n sick: You'll see her e'r you go?