_Nano._ Fie, princess, faint on every fond report! How well-nigh had you open'd your estate! Cover these sorrows with the veil of joy, And hope the best; for why this war will cause A great repentance in your husband's mind. _Q. Dor._ Ah, Nano, trees live not without their sap, And Clytie cannot blush but on the sun; The thirsty earth is broke with many a gap, And lands are lean where rivers do not run: Where soul is reft from that it loveth best, How can it thrive or boast of quiet rest? Thou know'st the prince's loss must be my death, His grief, my grief; his mischief must be mine. O, if thou love me, Nano, hie to court! Tell Ross, tell Bartram, that I am alive; Conceal thou yet the place of my abode: Will them, even as they love their queen, As they are chary of my soul and joy, To guard the king, to serve him as my lord. Haste thee, good Nano, for my husband's care Consumeth me, and wounds me to the heart. _Nano._ Madam, I go, yet loth to leave you here. _Q. Dor._ Go thou with speed: even as thou hold'st me dear, Return in haste. [_Exit_ NANO. _Re-enter_ LADY ANDERSON. _Lady And._ Now, sir, what cheer? come taste this broth I bring. _Q. Dor._ My grief is past, I feel no further sting. _Lady And._ Where is your dwarf? why hath he left you, sir? _Q. Dor._ For some affairs: he is not travell'd far. _Lady And._ If so you please, come in and take your rest. _Q. Dor._ Fear keeps awake a discontented breast. [_Exeunt._ SCENE II.--_Porch to the Castle of the_ COUNTESS OF ARRAN. _After a solemn service, enter from the_ COUNTESS OF ARRAN'S _house a service, with musical songs of marriages, or a mask, or pretty triumph: to them_ ATEUKIN _and_ JAQUES. _Ateu._ What means this triumph, friend? why are these feasts? _First Revel._ Fair Ida, sir, was married yesterday Unto Sir Eustace, and for that intent We feast and sport it thus to honour them: An, if you please, come in and take your part; My lady is no niggard of her cheer. [_Exeunt_ Revellers. _Jaq. Monseigneur_, why be you so sadda? _faites bonne chere: foutre de ce monde!_ _Ateu._ What, was I born to be the scorn of kin? To gather feathers like to a hopper-crow, And lose them in the height of all my pomp? Accursèd man, now is my credit lost! Where are my vows I made unto the king? What shall become of me, if he shall hear That I have caus'd him kill a virtuous queen, And hope in vain for that which now is lost? Where shall I hide my head? I know the heavens Are just and will revenge; I know my sins Exceed compare. Should I proceed in this, This Eustace must amain be made away. O, were I dead, how happy should I be!