_Enter_ CASTILIO _and_ FOROBOSCO, ALBERTO _and_ BALURDO, _with poleaxes_; PIERO, _talking with_ STROTZO, _seemeth to send him out: exit_ STROTZO. _Re-enter_ STROTZO _with_ MARIA, NUTRICHE, _and_ LUCIO. PIERO _passeth through his guard, and talks with_ MARIA _with seeming amorousness; she seemeth to reject his suit, flies to the tomb, kneels, and kisseth it_. PIERO _bribes_ NUTRICHE _and_ LUCIO; _they go to her, seeming to solicit his suit. She riseth, offers to go out_; PIERO _stayeth her, tears open his breast, embraceth and kisseth her; and so they go all out in state_. _After the dumb show enter two_ Pages, _the one with tapers, the other holding a chafing-dish with a perfume in it_; ANTONIO, _in his night-gown and a night-cap, unbraced, following after_. _Ant._ The black jades of swart night trot foggy rings[263] 'Bout heaven's brow: [_clock strikes twelve_] 'tis now stark dead night. Is this Saint Mark's Church? _1st Pa._ It is, my lord. _Ant._ Where stands my father's hearse? _2d Pa._ Those streamers bear his arms. Ay, that is it. _Ant._ Set tapers to the tomb, and lamp the church: Give me the fire.--Now depart and sleep. [_Exeunt_ Pages. I purify the air with odorous fume. Graves, vaults, and tombs, groan not to bear my weight; Cold flesh, bleak trunks, wrapt in your half-rot shrouds, I press you softly with a tender foot. 11 Most honour'd sepulchre, vouchsafe a wretch Leave to weep o'er thee. Tomb, I'll not be long Ere I creep in thee, and with bloodless lips Kiss my cold father's cheek. I prithee, grave, Provide soft mold to wrap my carcass in. Thou royal spirit of Andrugio, Where'er thou hover'st, airy intellect, I heave up tapers to thee (view thy son) In celebration of due obsequies; 20 Once every night I'll dew thy funeral hearse With my religious tears. O, blessèd father of a cursèd son, Thou died'st most happy, since thou lived'st not To see thy son most wretched, and thy wife Pursued by him that seeks my guiltless blood! O, in what orb thy mighty spirit soars, Stoop and beat down this rising fog of shame, That strives to blur thy blood, and girt defame About my innocent and spotless brows. 30 _Non est mori miserum, sed misere mori._ [_Ghost of_ ANDRUGIO _rises_.