_Ant._ Blow hence these sapless jests. I tell you, bloods, My spirit's heavy, and the juice of life Creeps slowly through my stiffen'd arteries. Last sleep, my sense was steep'd in horrid dreams: Three parts of night were swallow'd in the gulf Of ravenous time, when to my slumb'ring powers, Two meagre ghosts made apparition. The one's breast seem'd fresh paunch'd with bleeding wounds, Whose bubbling gore sprang in [my] frighted eyes; 110 The other ghost assum'd my father's shape: Both cried, "Revenge!" At which my trembling joints, Icèd quite over with a frozed cold sweat,[217] Leap'd forth the sheets. Three[218] times I g[r]asp'd at shades, And thrice, deluded by erroneous sense, I forc'd my thoughts make stand; when lo, I oped[219] A large bay window, th[o]rough which the night Struck terror to my soul. The verge of heaven Was ring'd with flames, and all the upper vault Thick-lac'd with flakes of fire; in midst whereof 120 A blazing comet shot his threat'ning train Just on my face. Viewing these prodigies, I bow'd my naked knee and pierc'd the star With an outfacing eye, pronouncing thus: _Deus imperat astris_. At which, my nose straight bled; Then doubted I my word, so slunk to bed. 126 _Bal._ Verily, Sir Jeffrey had a monstrous strange dream the last night. For methought I dreamt I was asleep, and methought the ground yawn'd and belkt up the abhominable ghost of a misshapen simile, with two ugly pages; the one called master, even as going before; and the other mounser,[220] even so following after; whilst Signior Simile stalk'd most prodigiously in the midst. At which I bewray'd[221] the fearfulness of my nature, and being ready to forsake the fortress of my wit, start up, called for a clean shirt, ate a mess of broth, and with that I awaked. _Ant._ I prithee, peace. I tell you, gentlemen, The frightful shades of night yet shake my brain: My jellied[222] blood's not thaw'd: the sulphur damps, 140 That flew[223] in wingèd lightning 'bout my couch, Yet stick within my sense, my soul is great In expectation of dire prodigies. _Pan._ Tut, my young prince, let not thy fortunes see Their lord a coward. He that's nobly born Abhors to fear: base fear's the brand of slaves. He that observes, pursues, slinks back for fright, Was never cast in mould of noble sprite. _Gal._ Tush, there's a sun will straight exhale these damps Of chilling fear. Come, shall's salute the bride? 150 _Ant._ Castilio, I prithee mix thy breath with his: Sing one of Signior Renaldo's airs, To rouse the slumb'ring bride from gluttoning In surfeit of superfluous sleep. Good signior, sing. [_A Song._