The God of Heav’n forgive thee! Dost not wonder I pray for thee? I’ll tell thee what’s the reason: I have scarce breath to number twenty minutes; I’d not spend that in cursing. Fare thee well! Half of thyself lies there; and may’st thou live To fill an hour-glass with his moulder’d ashes, To tell how thou should’st spend the time to come In blest repentance. _Brach._ Mother, pray tell me, How came he by his death? What was the quarrel? _Corn._ Indeed, my younger boy presum’d too much Upon his manhood, gave him bitter words, Drew his sword first; and so, I know not how, For I was out of my wits, he fell with ‘s head Just in my bosom. _Page._ This is not true, madam. _Corn._ I pr’ythee, peace. One arrow’s graz’d already: it were vain To lose this; for that will ne’er be found again.’ This is a good deal borrowed from Lear; but the inmost folds of the human heart, the sudden turns and windings of the fondest affection, are also laid open with so masterly and original a hand, that it seems to prove the occasional imitations as unnecessary as they are evident. The scene where the Duke discovers that he is poisoned, is as follows, and equally fine. ‘_Brach._ Oh! I am gone already. The infection Flies to the brain and heart. O, thou strong heart, There’s such a covenant ‘tween the world and thee, They ‘re loth to part. _Giovanni._ O my most lov’d father! _Brach._ Remove the boy away: Where’s this good woman? Had I infinite worlds, They were too little for thee. Must I leave thee? (_To_ Vittoria). What say you, screech-owls. (_To the Physicians_) Is the venom mortal? _Phy._ Most deadly. _Brach._ Most corrupted politic hangman! You kill without book; but your art to save Fails you as oft as great men’s needy friends: I that have given life to offending slaves, And wretched murderers, have I not power To lengthen mine own a twelve-month? Do not kiss me, for I shall poison thee. This unction is sent from the great Duke of Florence. _Francesco de Medici_ (_in disguise_). Sir, be of comfort. _Brach._ Oh thou soft natural death! that art joint-twin To sweetest slumber!—no rough-bearded comet Stares on thy mild departure: the dull owl Beats not against thy casement: the hoarse wolf Scents not thy carrion. Pity winds thy corse, Whilst horror waits on princes. _Vit. Cor._ I am lost for ever. _Brach._ How miserable a thing it is to die ‘Mongst women howling! What are those? _Flam._ Franciscans. They have brought the extreme unction. _Brach._ On pain of death let no man name death to me: It is a word most infinitely terrible. Withdraw into our cabinet.’