_Ant._ Do not weep: Heaven fashioned us of nothing, and we strive To bring ourselves to nothing.--Farewell, Cariola, And thy sweet armful.--If I do never see thee more, Be a good mother to your little ones, And save them from the tiger: fare you well. _Duch._ Let me look upon you once more, for that speech Came from a dying father: your kiss is colder Than that I have seen an holy anchorite Give to a dead man's skull. _Ant._ My heart is turned to a heavy lump of lead, With which I sound my danger: fare you well. [_Exeunt_ ANTONIO _and his_ Son. _Duch._ My laurel is all withered. _Cari._ Look, madam, what a troop of armèd men Make towards us. _Duch._ O, they are very welcome: When Fortune's wheel is over-charged with princes, The weight makes it move swift: I would have my ruin Be sudden. _Re-enter_ BOSOLA _visarded, with a_ Guard. I am your adventure, am I not? _Bos._ You are: you must see your husband no more. _Duch._ What devil art thou that counterfeit'st Heaven's thunder? _Bos._ Is that terrible? I would have you tell me whether Is that note worse that frights the silly birds Out of the corn, or that which doth allure them To the nets? you have hearkened to the last too much. _Duch._ O misery! like to a rusty o'er-charged cannon, Shall I never fly in pieces?--Come, to what prison? _Bos._ To none. _Duch._ Whither, then? _Bos._ To your palace. _Duch._ I have heard That Charon's boat serves to convey all o'er The dismal lake, but brings none back again. _Bos._ Your brothers mean you safety and pity. _Duch._ Pity! With such a pity men preserve alive Pheasants and quails, when they are not fat enough To be eaten. _Bos._ These are your children? _Duch._ Yes. _Bos._ Can they prattle? _Duch._ No; But I intend, since they were born accursed, Curses shall be their first language. _Bos._ Fie, madam! Forget this base, low fellow,-- _Duch._ Were I a man, I'd beat that counterfeit face into thy other. _Bos._ One of no birth. _Duch._ Say that he was born mean, Man is most happy when's own actions Be arguments and examples of his virtue. _Bos._ A barren, beggarly virtue.