_1. Gua._ There is no way but one, let’s leaue the Land, If we stay heere, we shall be sure to dye, And suffer for our too much lenitie, Though we are innocent. _2. Gua._ Then haste away: The doome weele execute vpon our selues, And ship with speed for Holland, there, no doubt, We shall haue entertaynment, There are warres threatned betwixt Spaine and them. _1. Gua._ Then let vs hoyse vp sayle, mercy receiue Thy soule to Heauen, Earth to Earth we leaue. _Exeunt._ _Enter_ Atlanta. _Atlan._ What spectacle is this? A man new slaine, Close by the Princes Herse! Who is’t? Oh, me, The Noble Prince _Lisandro_. Cruell Fate, Is there no hope of life? See, he looks vp, Ile beare him out of the ayre, and stop his wound: If there be any hope, I haue a Balme Of knowne experience, in effecting cures Almost impossible, and if the wound Be not too deadly, will recouer him. _Exit Lorenzo._ _Enter_ Aurelia _and_ Iago. _Iag._ Deare Queene, haue patience. _Aur._ How, _Iago_, patience? Tis such a sinne, that were I guiltie of, I should despayre of mercie. Can a Mother Haue all the blessings both of Heauen and Earth, The hopefull issue of a thousand soules Extinct in one, and yet haue patience? I wonder patient Heauen beares so long, And not send thunder to destroy the Land. The Earth, me thinkes, should vomit sulph’rous Damps, To stifle and annoy both man and beast, Seditious Hell should send blacke Furies forth. To terrifie the hearts of tyrant Kings. What say the people? doe they not exclaime, And curse the seruile yoke, in which th’are bound. Vnder so mercilesse a Gouernour? _Iag._ Madame, in euery mouth is heard to sound. Nothing but murmurings and priuate whispers, Tending to seuerall ends: but all conclude, The King was too seuere for such a Fact. _Enter_ Atlanta. _Aur._ _Atlanta_, welcome, Oh my child, my child. There lies the summe of all my miserie! _Atl._ Gracious Madame, doe but heare me speake. _Aur._ _Atlanta_, I should wrong thy merit else. What wouldst thou say? Something I know, to mitigate my griefe. _Atl._ Rather to adde to your afflictions, I am the Messenger of heauie Newes. _Lisandro_, Prince of Naples, _Aur._ What of him? _Atl._ Beholding the sad obiect of his loue, His violent passion draue him to despayre, And he hath slaine himselfe. _Iag._ Disastrous chance! _Atl._ I found him gasping for his latest breath, And bore him to my Lord _Iago’s_ house, I vs’d my best of skill to saue his life: But all, I feare, in vaine: the mortall wound I find incurable: yet I prolong’d His life a little, that he yet drawes breath: Goe you and visit him with vtmost speed: The Queene and I will follow. _Iag._ Goe? Ile runne. _Exit Iago._