_John._ Hubert, interpret this apparition. _Hubert._ Behold, sir, A sad-writ Tragedy, so feelingly Languaged, and cast; with such a crafty cruelty Contrived, and acted; that wild savages Would weep to lay their ears to, and (admiring To see themselves outdone) they would conceive Their wildness mildness to this deed, and call Men more than savage, themselves rational. And thou, Fitzwater, reflect upon thy _name_,[32] And turn the _Son of Tears_. Oh, forget That Cupid ever spent a dart upon thee; That Hymen ever coupled thee; or that ever The hasty, happy, willing messenger Told thee thou had’st a daughter. Oh look here! Look here, King John, and with a trembling eye Read your sad act, Matilda’s tragedy. _Barons._ Matilda! _Fitzwater._ By the lab’ring soul of a much-injured man, It is my child Matilda! _Bruce._ Sweet niece! _Leicester._ Chaste soul! _John._ Do I stir, Chester? Good Oxford, do I move? stand I not still To watch when the griev’d friends of wrong’d Matilda Will with a thousand stabs turn me to dust, That in a thousand prayers they might be happy? Will no one do it? then give a mourner room, A man of tears. Oh immaculate Matilda, These shed but sailing heat-drops, misling showers The faint dews of a doubtful April morning; But from mine eyes ship-sinking cataracts, Whole clouds of waters, wealthy exhalations, Shall fall into the sea of my affliction, Till it amaze the mourners. _Hubert._ Unmatch’d Matilda; Celestial soldier, that kept a fort of chastity ’Gainst all temptations. _Fitzwater._ Not to be a Queen, Would she break her chaste vow. Truth crowns your reed; Un_match’d_ Matilda was her name indeed. _John._ O take into your spirit-piercing praise My scene of sorrow. I have well-clad woes, Pathetic epithets to illustrate passion, And steal true tears so sweetly from all these, Shall touch the soul, and at once pierce and please. [_Peruses the Motto and Emblems on the hearse._ “To Piety and Purity”--and “Lillies mix’d with Roses”-- How well you have apparell’d woe! this Pendant, To Piety and Purity directed, Insinuates a chaste soul in a clean body, Virtue’s white Virgin, Chastity’s red Martyr! Suffer me then with this well-suited wreath To make our griefs ingenious. Let all be dumb, Whilst the king speaks her Epicedium. _Chester._ His very soul speaks sorrow. _Oxford._ And it becomes him sweetly. _John._ Hail Maid and Martyr! lo on thy breast, Devotion’s altar, chaste Truth’s nest, I offer (as my guilt imposes) Thy merit’s laurel, Lillies and Roses; Lillies, intimating plain Thy immaculate life, stuck with no stain; Roses red and sweet, to tell How sweet red sacrifices smell. Hang round then, as you walk about this hearse,