_Mel._ Kill me; i'faith I'll wink, not stir a jot. For God sake kill me; in sooth, lovèd youth, I am much injur'd; look, see how I creep. I cannot wreak my wrong, but sigh and weep. _Ant._ May I be cursèd, but I credit thee. 100 _Mel._ To-morrow I must die. _Ant._ Alas, for what? _Mel._ For loving thee. 'Tis true, my sweetest breast, I must die falsely: so must thou, dear heart. Nets are a-knitting to entrap thy life. Thy father's death must make a paradise To my (I shame to call him) father. Tell me, sweet, Shall I die thine? dost love me still, and still? _Ant._ I do. _Mal._ Then welcome heaven's will. _Ant._ Madam, I will not swell, like a tragedian, In forcèd passion of affected strains. 110 If I had present power of ought but pitying you, I would be as ready to redress your wrongs As to pursue your love. Throngs of thoughts Crowd for their passage; somewhat I will do. Reach me thy hand; think this is honour's bent, To live unslavèd, to die innocent. _Mel._ Let me entreat a favour, gracious love. Be patient, see me die; good, do not weep: Go sup, sweet chuck, drink, and securely sleep. _Ant._ I'faith I cannot; but I'll force my face 120 To palliate my sickness. _Mel._ Give me thy hand. Peace on thy bosom dwell: That's all my woe can breathe. Kiss: thus, farewell. _Ant._ Farewell: my heart is great of thoughts; stay, dove: And therefore I must speak: but what? O love! By this white hand: no more: read in these tears, What crushing anguish thy Antonio bears. [ANTONIO _kisseth_ MELLIDA'S _hand: then_ MELLIDA _goes from the grate_. Mel._ Good night, good heart. _Ant._ Thus heat from blood, thus souls from bodies part. 129 _Enter_ PIERO _and_ STROTZO. _Pier._ He grieves; laugh, Strotzo, laugh. He weeps. Hath he tears? O pleasure! hath he tears? Now do I scourge Andrugio with steel whips Of knotty vengeance. Strotzo, cause me straight Some plaining ditty to augment despair. [_Exit_ STROTZO. Triumph, Piero: hark, he groans. O rare! _Ant._ Behold a prostrate wretch laid on his tomb. His epitaph, thus: _Ne plus ultra_. Ho! Let none out-woe me: mine's Herculean woe. [_A song within._--_Exit_ PIERO _at the end of the song_. _Enter_ MARIA. _Ant._ May I be more cursed than Heaven can make me, if I'm not more wretched than man can conceive me. 140 Sore forlorn orphant, what omnipotence Can make thee happy? _Mar._ How now, sweet son? Good youth, What dost thou? _Ant._ Weep, weep. _Mar._ Dost nought but weep, weep? _Ant._ Yes, mother, I do sigh, and wring my hands, Beat my poor breast, and wreathe my tender arms. Hark ye; I'll tell you wondrous strange, strange news.