_Ferd._ I'll go hunt the badger by owl-light: 'Tis a deed of darkness. [_Exit._ _Bos._ He's much distracted. Off, my painted honour! While with vain hopes our faculties we tire, We seem to sweat in ice and freeze in fire. What would I do, were this to do again? I would not change my peace of conscience For all the wealth of Europe.--She stirs; here's life:-- Return, fair soul, from darkness, and lead mine Out of this sensible hell:--she's warm, she breathes:-- Upon thy pale lips I will melt my heart, To store them with fresh colour.--Who's there! Some cordial drink!--Alas! I dare not call: So pity would destroy pity.--Her eye opes, And Heaven in it seems to ope, that late was shut, To take me up to mercy. _Duch._ Antonio! _Bos._ Yes, madam, he is living; The dead bodies you saw were but feigned statues: He's reconciled to your brothers; the Pope hath wrought The atonement. _Duch._ Mercy! [_Dies._ _Bos._ O, she's gone again! there the cords of life broke. O sacred innocence, that sweetly sleeps On turtles' feathers, whilst a guilty conscience Is a black register wherein is writ All our good deeds and bad, a perspective That shows us hell! That we cannot be suffered To do good when we have a mind to it! This is manly sorrow; These tears, I am very certain, never grew In my mother's milk: my estate is sunk Below the degree of fear: where were These penitent fountains while she was living? O, they were frozen up! Here is a sight As direful to my soul as is the sword Unto a wretch hath slain his father. Come, I'll bear thee hence, And execute thy last will; that's deliver Thy body to the reverend dispose Of some good women: that the cruel tyrant Shall not deny me. Then I'll post to Milan, Where somewhat I will speedily enact Worth my dejection. [_Exit._ ACT THE FIFTH. SCENE I.--_A Public Place in Milan._ _Enter_ ANTONIO _and_ DELIO. _Ant._ What think you of my hope of reconcilement To the Arragonian brethren? _Delio._ I misdoubt it; For though they have sent their letters of safe-conduct For your repair to Milan, they appear But nets to entrap you. The Marquis of Pescara, Under whom you hold certain land in cheat, Much 'gainst his noble nature hath been moved To seize those lands; and some of his dependants Are at this instant making it their suit To be invested in your revenues. I cannot think they mean well to your life That do deprive you of your means of life, Your living. _Ant._ You are still an heretic To any safety I can shape myself. _Delio._ Here comes the marquis: I will make myself Petitioner for some part of your land, To know whither it is flying. _Ant._ I pray do. _Enter_ PESCARA. _Delio._ Sir, I have a suit to you. _Pes._ To me?