And where is deare Lorenzo? dead? all dead?
And would to God I were intomb’d with them,
Emptie of substance. Curse of Soueraigntie,
That feed’st thy fancie with deluding hopes
Of fickle shadowes; promising to one,
Eternitie of fame; and vnto all,
To be accounted wise and vertuous,
Obseruing but your Lawes and iust decrees;
That vnder shew of being mercifull,
Art most vnkind, and cruell: nay, ’tis true.