_Ant._ My father dead: my love attaint of lust,-- That's a large lie, as vast as spacious hell! Poor guiltless lady! O, accursèd lie! What, whom, whither, which shall I first lament? A[229] dead father, a dishonour'd wife? Stand. Methinks I feel the frame of nature shake. Cracks not the joints of earth to bear my woes? 270 _Alb._ Sweet prince, be patient. _Ant._ 'Slid, sir, I will not in despite of thee. Patience is slave to fools: a chain that's fixt Only to posts, and senseless log-like dolts. _Alb._ 'Tis reason's glory to command affects.[230] _Ant._ Lies thy cold father dead, his glossèd eyes New closèd up by thy sad mother's hands? Hast thou a love, as spotless as the brow Of clearest heaven, blurr'd with false defames? Are thy moist entrails crumpled up with grief 280 Of parching mischiefs? Tell me, does thy heart With punching anguish spur thy gallèd ribs? Then come, let's sit[231] and weep and wreathe our arms: I'll hear thy counsel. _Alb._ Take comfort. _Ant._ Confusion to all comfort! I defy it. Comfort's a parasite, a flattering jack,[232] And melts resolv'd despair. O boundless woe, If there be any black yet unknown grief, If there be any horror yet unfelt, 290 Unthought of mischief in thy fiend-like power, Dash it upon my miserable head; Make me more wretch, more cursèd if thou canst! O, now my fate is more than I could fear: My woes more weighty than my soul can bear. [_Exit._ _Pan._ Ha, ha, ha! _Alb._ Why laugh you, uncle? That's my coz, your son, Whose breast hangs casèd in his cluttered[233] gore. _Pan._ True, man, true: why, wherefore should I weep? Come, sit, kind nephew: come on; thou and I 300 Will talk as chorus to this tragedy. Entreat the music strain their instruments With a slight touch, whilst we--Say on, fair coz. _Alb._ He was the very hope of Italy, [_Music sounds softly._ The blooming honour of your drooping age. _Pan._ True, coz, true. They say that men of hope are crush'd; Good are supprest by base desertless clods, That stifle gasping virtue. Look, sweet youth, How provident our quick Venetians are, Lest hooves of jades should trample on my boy: 310 Look how they lift him up to eminence, Heave him 'bove reach of flesh. Ha, ha, ha! _Alb._ Uncle, this laughter ill becomes your grief.