_Ghost of And._ Thy pangs of anguish rip my cerecloth up, And, lo, the ghost of old Andrugio Forsakes his coffin. Antonio, revenge! I was empoison'd by Piero's hand. Revenge my blood! take spirit, gentle boy; Revenge my blood! Thy Mellida is chaste: Only to frustrate thy pursuit in love, Is blazed unchaste. Thy mother yields consent To be his wife, and give his blood a son, 40 That made her husbandless, and doth complot To make her sonless; but before I touch The banks of rest, my ghost shall visit her. Thou vigour of my youth, juice of my love, Seize on revenge, grasp the stern-bended front Of frowning vengeance with unpaiz'd[264] clutch.[265] Alarum Nemesis, rouse up thy blood! Invent some stratagem of vengeance, Which, but to think on, may like lightning glide With horror through thy breast! Remember this: 50 _Scelera[266] non ulcisceris, nisi vincis_. [_Exit_ ANDRUGIO'S _ghost_. _Enter_ MARIA, _her hair about her ears_; NUTRICHE _and_ LUCIO, _with Pages, and torches_. _Mar._ Where left you him? show me, good boys, away! _Nut._ God's me, your hair! _Mar._ Nurse, 'tis not yet proud day: The neat gay mists of the light's not up, Her cheek's not yet slur'd over with the paint Of borrow'd crimson; the unprankèd world Wears yet the night-clothes. Let flare my loosèd hair! I scorn the presence of the night.-- Where's my boy?--Run: I'll range about the church, Like frantic Bacchanal or Jason's wife, 60 Invoking all the spirits of the graves To tell me where.--Ha? O my poor wretched blood! What dost thou up at midnight, my kind boy? Dear soul, to bed! O thou hast struck a fright Unto thy mother's panting---- _Ant._[267] _O quisquis nova Supplicia functis dirus umbrarum arbiter Disponis, quisquis exeso jaces Pavidus sub antro,[268] quisquis venturi times Montis ruinam, quisquis avidorum feros[269] Rictus leonum, et dira furiarum agmina_ 70 _Implicitus horres, Antonii vocem excipe Properantis ad vos--Ulciscar!_ _Mar._ Alas! my son's distraught. Sweet boy, appease Thy mutining affections. _Ant._ By the astonning terror of swart night, By the infectious damps of clammy graves, And[270] by the mould that presseth down My dead father's skull, I'll be revenged! _Mar._ Wherefore? on whom? for what? Go, go to bed, Good, duteous son. Ho, but thy idle---- 80 _Ant._ So I may sleep tomb'd in an honour'd hearse, So may my bones rest in that sepulchre,---- _Mar._ Forget not duty, son: to bed, to bed.