Touch not that string, 'Twill but encrease your sorrow: and tame silence, (The Balm of the oppressed) which hitherto Hath eas'd your griev'd soul, and preserv'd your fame, Must be your Surgeon still. _Jac_. If the contagion Of my misfortunes had not spread it self Upon my Son _Ascanio_, though my wants Were centupli'd upon my self, I could be patient: But he is so good, I so miserable, His pious care, his duty, and obedience, And all that can be wish'd for from a Son, Discharg'd to me, and I, barr'd of all means To return any scruple of the debt I owe him as a Mother, is a Torment, Too painfull to be born. _Oct_. I suffer with you, In that; yet find in this assurance comfort, High Heaven ordains (whose purposes cannot alter) _Enter_ Ascanio. Children that pay obedience to their Parents, Shall never beg their Bread. _Jac_. Here comes our joy, Where has my dearest been? _Asc_. I have made, Mother, A fortunate voyage and brought home rich prize, In a few hours: the owners too contented, From whom I took it. See here's Gold, good store too, Nay, pray you take it. _Jac_. Mens Charities are so cold, That if I knew not, thou wert made of Goodness, 'Twould breed a jealousie in me by what means, Thou cam'st by such a sum. _Asc_. Were it ill got, I am sure it could not be employed so well, As to relieve your wants. Some noble friends, (Rais'd by heavens mercy to me, not my merits) Bestow'd it on me. _Oct_. It were a sacriledge To rob thee of their bounty, since they gave it To thy use only. _Jac_. Buy thee brave Cloathes with it And fit thee for a fortune, and leave us To our necessities; why do'st thou weep? _Asc_. Out of my fear I have offended you; For had I not, I am sure you are too kind, Not to accept the offer of my service, In which I am a gainer; I have heard My tutor say, of all aereal fowl The Stork's the Embleme of true pietie, Because when age hath seiz'd upon her dam, And made unfit for flight, the gratefull young one Takes her upon his back, provides her food, Repaying so her tender care of him, E're he was fit to fly, by bearing her: Shall I then that have reason and discourse That tell me all I can doe is too little, Be more unnatural than a silly bird? Or feed or cloath my self superfluously, And know, nay see you want? holy Saints keep me. _Jac_. Can I be wretched, And know my self the Mother to such Goodness? _Oct_. Come let us drie our eyes, we'll have a feast, Thanks to our little Steward. _Jac_. And in him, Believe that we are rich. _Asc_. I am sure I am, While I have power to comfort you, and serve you.