_Mar._ What, my good boy, stark mad? _Ant._ I am not. _Mar._ Alas! Is that strange news? 150 _Ant._ Strange news? why, mother, is't not wondrous strange I am not mad--I run not frantic, ha? Knowing, my father's trunk scarce cold, your love Is sought by him that doth pursue my life! Seeing the beauty of creation, Antonio's bride, pure heart, defamed, and stowed Under the hatches of obscuring earth! _Heu, quo labor, quo vota ceciderunt mea!_ _Enter_ PIERO. _Pier._ Good evening to the fair Antonio; Most happy fortune, sweet succeeding time, 160 Rich hope: think not thy fate a bankrout,[257] though---- _Ant._ [_Aside._] Umh! the devil in his good time and tide forsake thee. _Pier._ How now? hark ye, prince. _Ant._ God be with you. _Pier._ Nay, noble blood, I hope ye not suspect---- _Ant._ Suspect! I scorn't. Here's cap and leg, good night. [_Aside._] Thou that wants power, with dissemblance fight. [_Exit_ ANTONIO. _Pier._ Madam, O that you could remember to forget---- _Mar._ I had a husband and a happy son. _Pier._ Most powerful beauty, that enchanting grace---- _Mar._ Talk not of beauty, nor enchanting grace,---- 170 My husband's dead, my son's distraught, accurs'd! Come, I must vent my griefs, or heart will burst. [_Exit_ MARIA. _Pier._ She's gone, and yet she's here: she hath left a print Of her sweet graces fix'd within my heart, As fresh as is her face. I'll marry her. She's most fair,--true; most chaste,--false;[258] because Most fair, 'tis firm I'll marry her. _Enter_ STROTZO. _Str._ My lord. _Pier._ Ha, Strotzo, my other soul, my life! Dear, hast thou steel'd the point of thy resolve? Will't not turn edge in execution? _Str._ No. 180 _Pier._ Do it with rare passion, and present thy guilt As if 'twere wrung out with thy conscience' gripe. Swear that my daughter's innocent of lust, And that Antonio bribed thee to defame Her maiden honour, on inveterate hate Unto my blood; and that thy hand was feed By his large bounty for his father's death. Swear plainly that thou choked'st Andrugio, By his son's only egging. Rush me in Whilst Mellida prepares herself to die, 190 Halter about thy neck, and with such sighs, Laments, and applications lifen it, As if impulsive power of remorse---- _Str._ I'll weep. _Pier._ Ay, ay, fall on thy face and cry "why suffer you So lewd a slave as Strotzo is to breathe?" _Str._ I'll beg a strangling, grow importunate----