_Pan._ Didst find her good, or didst thou make her good? If found, thou may'st refind, because thou hadst her; If made, the work is lost, but thou that madest her Livest yet as cunning. Hast lost a good wife? Thrice-blessèd man that lost her whilst she was good, Fair, young, unblemish'd, constant, loving, chaste. 40 I tell thee, youth, age knows, young loves seem graced, Which with gray cares, rude jars, are oft defaced. _Ant._ But she was full of hope. _Pan._ May be, may be; but that which _may be_ stood, Stands now without all _may_. She dièd good, And dost thou grieve? _Alb._ I ha' lost a true friend. _Pan._ I live encompass'd with two blessèd souls. Thou lost a good wife, thou lost a true friend, ha! Two of the rarest lendings of the heavens,-- But lendings which, at the fix'd day of pay 50 Set down by fate, thou must restore again.[312] O what unconscionable souls are here! Are you all like the spoke-shaves of the church? Have you no maw to restitution? Hast lost a true friend, coz? then thou hadst one. I tell thee, youth, 'tis all as difficult To find true friend in this apostate age (That balks all right affiance 'twixt two hearts) As 'tis to find a fixèd modest heart Under a painted breast. Lost a true friend! 60 O happy soul that lost him whilst he was true! Believe it, coz, I to my tears have found, Oft dirt's respect makes firmer friends unsound. _Alb._ You have lost a good son. _Pan._ Why, there's the comfort on't, that he was good. Alas, poor innocent! _Alb._ Why weeps mine uncle? _Pan._ Ha, dost ask me why? ha, ha! Good coz, look here! [_He shows him his son's breast._ Man will break out, despite philosophy. Why, all this while I ha' but played a part, 70 Like to some boy that acts a tragedy, Speaks burly words, and raves out passion; But, when he thinks upon his infant weakness, He droops his eye. I spake more than a god, Yet am less than a man. I am the miserablest soul that breathes. [ANTONIO _starts up_. _Ant._ 'Slid, sir, ye lie! by the heart of grief, thou liest! I scorn'd that any wretched should survive, Outmounting me in that superlative, Most miserable, most unmatch'd in woe. 80 Who dare assume that but Antonio? _Pan._ Wilt still be so, and shall yon blood-hound live? _Ant._ Have I an arm, a heart, a sword, a soul? _Alb._ Were you but private unto what we know---- _Pan._ I'll know it all; first let's inter the dead. Let's dig his grave with that shall dig the heart, Liver, and entrails of the murderer. [_They strike the stage with their daggers, and the grave openeth._ _Ant._ Wilt sing a dirge, boy? _Pan._ No, no song; 'twill be vile out of tune.