_Mart._ See, she that makes you see Sir, And to your misery still see, your mother, The mother of your woes Sir, of your waking, The mother of your peoples cries, and curses, Your murdering mother, your malicious mother: _Thier._ Phisitians, halfe my state to sleepe an houre now; Is it so mother? _Brun._ Yes it is so sonne; And were it yet againe to do, it should be. _Mart._ She nods againe, swing her. _Thier._ But mother, For yet I love that reverence, and to death Dare not forget you have bin so; was this, This endlesse misery, this curelesse malice, This snatching from me all my youth together, All that you made me for, and happy mothers Crownde with eternall time are proud to finish, Done by your will? _Brun._ It was, and by that will. _Thier._ O mother, do not lose your name, forget not The touch of nature in you, tendernes 'Tis all the soule of woman, all the sweetnesse; Forget not I beseech you what are children, Nor how you [have] gron'd for um, to what love They are borne inheritors, with what care kept, And as they rise to ripenesse still remember How they impe out your age; and when time calls you, That as an Autum flower you fall, forget not How round about your hearse they hang like penons. _Brun._ Holy foole, Whose patience to prevent my wrongs has kill'd thee, Preach not to me of punishments, or feares, Or what I ought to be, but what I am, A woman in her liberall will defe[at]ed, In all her greatnesse crost, in pleasure blasted, My angers have bin laught at, my ends slighted, And all those glories that had crownd my fortunes, Suffer'd by blasted vertue to be scatter'd, I am the fruitefull mother of these angers, And what such have done, reade, and know thy ruine. _Thier._ Heaven forgive you. _Mart._ She tells you true, for milions of her mischiefes Are now apparent, _Protaldye_, we have taken An equall agent with her, to whose care After the damnde defeate on you, she trusted. _Enter Messenger._ The bringing in of _Leonor_ the bastard Son to your murther'd brother, her Physitian By this time is attacht to that damn'd devil. _Mess._ 'Tis like he will be so, for e'er we came Fearing an equal justice for his mischiefs, He drencht himself. _Brun._ He did like one of mine then. _Thier._ Must I still see these miseries, no night To hide me from their horrors, that _Protaldy_ See justice fall upon. _Brun._ Now I could sleep too. _Enter_ Ordella. _Mart._ I'll give you yet more Poppy, bring the Lady And heaven in her embraces; gives him quiet, Madam, unveil yourself. _Ordel._ I do forgive you, And though you sought my bloud, yet I'll pray for you. _Brun._ Art thou alive? _Mart._ Now could you sleep?