And Albanact, thy father’s only joy, Youngest in years, but not the youngest in mind, A perfect pattern of all chivalry, Take thou the North for thy dominion, A country full of hills and ragged rocks, Replenished with fierce untamed beasts, As correspondent to thy martial thoughts, Live long, my sons, with endless happiness, And bear firm concordance amongst your selves. Obey the counsels of these fathers grave, That you may better bear out violence.— But suddenly, through weakness of my age, And the defect of youthful puissance, My malady increaseth more and more, And cruel death hasteneth his quickened pace, To dispossess me of my earthly shape. Mine eyes wax dim, overcast with clouds of age, The pangs of death compass my crazed bones; Thus to you all my blessings I bequeath, And with my blessings, this my fleeting soul My glass is run, and all my miseries Do end with life; death closeth up mine eyes, My soul in haste flies to the Elysian fields. [_He dieth._] LOCRINE. Accursed stars, damned and accursed stars, To abbreviate my noble father’s life! Hard-hearted gods, and too envious fates, Thus to cut off my father’s fatal thread! Brutus, that was a glory to us all, Brutus, that was a terror to his foes, Alas, too soon, by Demagorgon’s knife, The martial Brutus is bereft of life! CORINEUS. No sad complaints may move just Aeacus, No dreadful threats can fear judge Rhodomanth. Wert thou as strong as mighty Hercules, That tamed the huge monsters of the world, Playedst thou as sweet, on the sweet sounding lute, As did the spouse of fair Eurydice, That did enchant the waters with his noise, And made stones, birds, and beasts, to lead a dance, Constrained the hilly trees to follow him, Thou couldst not move the judge of Erebus, Nor move compassion in grim Pluto’s heart; For fatal Mors expecteth all the world, And every man must tread the way of death. Brave Tantalus, the valiant Pelops’ sire, Guest to the gods, suffered untimely death, And old Tithonus, husband to the morn, And eke grim Minos, whom just Jupiter Deigned to admit unto his sacrifice. The thundering trumpets of blood-thirsty Mars, The fearful rage of fell Tisiphone, The boistrous waves of humid Ocean, Are instruments and tools of dismal death. Then, novel cousin, cease to mourn his chance, Whose age & years were signs that he should die. It reseth now that we inter his bones, That was a terror to his enemies. Take up the course, and, princes, hold him dead, Who while he lived, upheld the Trojan state. Sound drums and trumpets; march to Troinouant, There to provide our chieftain’s funeral. [_Exeunt._] SCENE II. The house of Strumbo Enter Strumbo above in a gown, with ink and paper in his hand, saying:—.