Alardo. Blessed then are you That know him in Elysium; but I Have no sweet sunshine gleaming through my tears. I would not have mine dead e'en to gain heaven; But life may now be hell: on yon rude shores Near which we drifted when my son was lost, They say that human fiends cavern to prey On hunted ships the tinchel-waves drive in, Torturing the voyagers for ransom; some Transporting slaves to burning Afric climes: Each imaged pang impales my inmost heart. Conrad. I said my loss was past, yet, in a sort, I suffer fresh bereavement every day; And might with uncurbed fancy harrow up, As you do yours, my fatherly regard, But that it boots not to imagine ill, Where equal chance shows good luck may betide. My child was lost or stolen, drowned or devoured, I brood not which; but, in most hopeful mood, Think soon to see him well; more sluggish thoughts Would joy to find him any how or where: And so, piecemeal, my hope is back repulsed To find content in sure news of his death. Alardo. Was it a while ago your son was lost? Conrad. Full fifteen years; his age, one half that sum. Alardo. Fifteen unsevered years may cool me too, But grief and I are fresh and all uncloyed; We drain the utmost sadness that we can. Conrad. I bore grief just so passionate a love; But long before you slight her as I do, Doubt not that dear joy will seduce your heart: Your quick-found son will give her to your arms. Alardo. How did you lose your son, good Conrad, say? Conrad. Indeed I cannot. One soul-sickening night Nowhere was he discovered. Every haunt Where curious childhood oft had wandered him Appeared as wistful for his sight as we; The mourning echoes called with us his name. He was my only son--Heaven grant he is! Alardo. For you conjecture had an airy stretch, And hope full complement of anchors strong; My thoughts are hedged, my only grapnel drags. Your son was lost from vague remembrance; death Plucked mine with bony grasp from out my eyes. Seven years you had a son; and twice that term Has tamed your sorrow's force: my Rupert's eyes Had viewed a score of summers: by this count A century should see me bow to fate; But I'll be traitor till death vindicate The all-commanding rule of destiny. Conrad. Permit me, sir: such is your present thought.-- Holds your intent to travel in disguise Thence to our court: to hear what rumour goes Concerning us; toward you what mind is borne; To note your subjects' state; with parent's care To mark what merits praise, what needs reproof, And understand the country's inmost soul? Alardo. I purpose so. Our lives, however short, And full of toil, have time enough for grief. Yet stay, my lord: here comes one who shall tell Which is the pleasantest, most peopled way. In him, moreover, we will broach the fame Of our long ventures in a time so brief.-- Enter Cinthio.