_Ant._ Away! A self-sown[250] guilt doth only hatch distrust; But a chaste thought's as far from doubt as lust. I entreat you, leave me. _Alb._ Will you endeavour to forget your grief? _Ant._ I'faith I will, good friend, i'faith I will. 40 I'll come and eat with you. Alberto, see, I am taking physic, here's philosophy. Good honest, leave me, I'll drink wine anon. _Alb._ Since you enforce us, fair prince, we are gone. [_Exeunt_ ALBERTO _and_ LUCIO. ANTONIO _reads_. _A. Ferte[251] fortiter: hoc est quo deum antecedatis. Ille enim extra patientiam malorum, vos supra. Contemnite dolorem: aut solvetur, aut solvet. Contemnite fortunam: nullum telum, quo feriret animum habet._[252] Pish, thy mother was not lately widowèd, Thy dear affièd love lately defam'd 50 With blemish of foul lust, when thou wrotest thus; Thou wrapt in furs, beaking[253] thy limbs 'fore fires; Forbid'st the frozen zone to shudder. Ha, ha! 'tis nought But foamy bubbling of a fleamy[254] brain, Nought else but smoke. O what dank marish spirit, But would be fired with impatience At my---- No more, no more; he that was never blest With height of birth, fair expectation Of mounted fortunes, knows not what it is 60 To be the pitied object of the world. O, poor Antonio, thou may'st sigh! _Mel._ [_from beneath._] Ay me! _Ant._ And curse. _Pan._ [_from within._] Black powers! _Ant._ And cry. _Mar._ [_from within._] O Heaven! _Ant._ And close laments with----. _Mel._[255] [_from beneath._] O me, most miserable! _Pan._ Woe for my dear, dear son! 70 _Mar._ Woe for my dear, dear husband! _Mel._ Woe for my dear, dear love! _Ant._ Woe for me all, close all your woes in me! In me, Antonio!--ha! where live these sounds? I can see nothing; grief's invisible, And lurks in secret angles of the heart. Come, sigh again, Antonio bears his part. _Mel._ O here, here is a vent to pass my sighs. I have surcharged the dungeon with my plaints. Prison and heart will burst, if void of vent. 80 Ay, that is Phoebe, empress of the night, That 'gins to mount; O chastest deity, If I be false to my Antonio, If the least soil of lust smears my pure love, Make me more wretched, make me more accurs'd Than infamy, torture, death, hell, and heaven, Can bound with amplest power of thought: if not, Purge my poor heart from[256] defamation's blot. _Ant._ Purge my poor heart from defamation's blot! Poor heart, how like her virtuous self she speaks.-- 90 Mellida, dear Mellida! it is Antonio: Slink not away, 'tis thy Antonio. _Mel._ How found you out, my lord? Alas! I know 'Tis easy in this age to find out woe. I have a suit to you. _Ant._ What is't, dear soul?