_Luce._ If there be any punishment inflicted Upon the miserable, more than yet I feel, Let it together seize me, and at once Press down my soul; I cannot bear the pain Of these delaying tortures. Thou that art The end of all, and the sweet rest of all, Come, come, O Death, and bring me to thy peace, And blot out all the memory I nourish Both of my father and my cruel friend. O wretched maid, still living to be wretched, To be a say to Fortune in her changes, And grow to number times and woes together. How happy had I been, if being born My grave had been my cradle? _Enter_ SERVANT. _Serv._ By your leave, Young mistress, here's a boy hath brought a coffin, What a would say I know not; but your father Charg'd me to give you notice. Here they come. _Enter two bearing a coffin_, JASPER _in it_. _Luce._ For me I hope 'tis come, and 'tis most welcome. _Boy._ Fair mistress, let me not add greater grief To that great store you have already; Jasper (That whilst he liv'd was yours, now's dead, And here inclos'd) commanded me to bring His body hither, and to crave a tear From those fair eyes, though he deserv'd not pity, To deck his funeral, for so he bid me Tell her for whom he died. _Luce._ He shall have many. [_Exeunt_ COFFIN-CARRIER _and_ BOY. Good friends, depart a little, whilst I take My leave of this dead man, that once I lov'd: Hold, yet a little, life, and then I give thee To thy first Heav'nly Being. O my friend! Hast thou deceiv'd me thus, and got before me? I shall not long be after, but believe me, Thou wert too cruel, Jasper, 'gainst thyself, In punishing the fault I could have pardon'd, With so untimely death; thou didst not wrong me, But ever wert most kind, most true, most loving: And I the most unkind, most false, most cruel. Didst thou but ask a tear? I'll give thee all, Even all my eyes can pour down, all my sighs, And all myself, before thou goest from me. These are but sparing rites; but if thy soul Be yet about this place, and can behold And see what I prepare to deck thee with, It shall go up, borne on the wings of peace, And satisfied. First will I sing thy dirge, Then kiss thy pale lips, and then die, myself, And fill one coffin, and one grave together. SONG. Come you whose loves are dead, And whilst I sing, Weep and wring Every hand, and every head Bind with cypress and sad yew; Ribbons black and candles blue, For him that was of men most true.