_Brun._ Give't me, I may have use [of 't], and on you I'll make the first experiment: if one sigh Or heavy look beget the least suspition, Childish compassion can thaw the Ice Of your so long congeal'd and flinty hardness. Slight, go on constant, or I shall. _Prot._ Best Lady, We have no faculties which are not yours. _Lecu._ Nor will be any thing without you. _B[r]un._ Be so, and we will stand or fall together, for Since we have gone so far, that death must stay The journey, which we wish should never end; And innocent, or guilty, we must die, When we do so, let's know the reason why. _Enter_ Thierry _and_ Courtiers. _Lecu._ The King. _Thier._ We'll be alone. _Prot._ I would I had A Convoy too, to bring me safe off. For rage although it be allai'd with sorrow, Appears so dreadful in him, that I shake To look upon't. _Brun._ Coward I will meet it, And know from whence 't has birth: Son, kingly _Thierry_. _Thier._ Is cheating grown so common among men? And thrives so well here, that the gods endeavour To practise it above? _Brun._ Your Mother. _Thier._ Ha! or are they only careful to revenge, Not to reward? or when, for your offences We study satisfaction, must the cure Be worse than the disease? _Brun._ Will you not hear me? _Thier._ To lose th' ability to perform those duties For which I entertain'd the name of Husband, Ask'd more than common sorrow; but t'impose For the redress of that defect, a torture In marking her to death, for whom alone I felt that weakness as a want, requires More than the making the head bald: or falling Thus flat upon the earth, or cursing that way, Or praying this, oh such a Scene of grief, And so set down, (the world the stage to act on) May challenge a Tragedian better practis'd Than I am to express it; for my cause Of passion is so strong, and my performance So weak, that though the part be good, I fear Th'ill acting of it, will defraud it of The poor reward it may deserve, mens pity. _Brun._ I have given you way thus long, a King, and what Is more, my Son, and yet a slave to that Which only triumphs over cowards sorrow, For shame look up. _Thier._ Is't you, look down on me: And if that you are capable to receive it, Let that return to you, that have brought forth One mark'd out only for it: what are these? Come they upon your privilege to tread on The Tomb of my afflictions? _Prot._ No, not we Sir. _Thier._ How dare you then omit the ceremony Due to the funeral of all my hopes, Or come unto the marriage of my sorrows, But in such colours as may sort with them? _Prot._ Alas; we will wear any thing. _Brun._ This is madness Take but my counsel.