_And._ Then here [_raising his beaver_], Piero, is Andrugio's head, Royally casquèd in a helm of steel: Give me thy love, and take it. My dauntless soul Hath that unbounded vigour in his spirits That it can bear more rank indignity, With less impatience than thy canker'd hate Can sting and venom his untainted worth With the most vip'rous sound of malice. Strike! O, let no glimpse of honour light thy thoughts; If there be any heat of royal breath 270 Creeping in thy veins, O stifle it; Be still thyself, bloody and treacherous. Fame not thy house with an admirèd act Of princely pity. Piero, I am come To soil thy house with an eternal blot Of savage cruelty; strike, or bid me strike. I pray my death; that thy ne'er-dying shame Might live immortal to posterity. Come, be a princely hangman, stop my breath. O dread thou shame, no more than I dread death. 280 _Pier._ We are amazed, our royal spirit's numb'd In stiff astonish'd wonder at thy prowess. Most mighty, valiant, and high-tow'ring heart, We blush, and turn our hate upon ourselves, For hating such an unpeer'd excellence. I joy my state: him whom I loath'd before, That now I honour, love, nay more, adore. [_The still flutes sound a mournful senet. Enter a funeral procession, followed by_ LUCIO. But stay; what tragic spectacle appears! Whose body bear you in that mournful hearse? _Lu._ The breathless trunk of young Antonio. 290 _Mel._ Antonio! ay me! my lord, my love! my----. _And._ Sweet precious issue of most honour'd blood, Rich hope, ripe virtue, O untimely loss! Come hither, friend: prithee, do not weep. Why, I am glad he's dead; he shall not see His father's vanquish'd by his enemy, Even in princely honour. Nay, prithee, speak! How died the wretched boy? _Lu._ My lord! _And._ I hope he died yet like my son, i'faith. 300 _Lu._ Alas, my lord! _And._ He died unforced, I trust, and valiantly? _Lu._ Poor gentleman, being---- _And._ Did his hand shake, or his eye look dull, His thoughts reel fearful when he struck the stroke? And if they did, I'll rend them out the hearse, Rip up his cerecloth, mangle his bleak face, That when he comes to heaven, the powers divine, Shall ne'er take notice that he was my son: I'll quite disclaim his birth. Nay, prithee, speak! 310 And 'twere not hooped with steel, my breast would break. _Mel._ O that my spirit in a sigh could mount Into the sphere where thy sweet soul doth rest! _Pier._ O that my tears, bedewing thy wan cheek, Could make new spirit sprout in thy cold blood! _Bal._ Verily, he looks as pitifully as a poor John;[186] as I am true knight, I could weep like a ston'd horse.