Cam. I think so, 'tis faith enough if they name 'em in their angers,
Or on their rotten Tombs ingrave an Angel;
Well, brave Alphonso, how happy had we been,
If thou had'st raign'd!
Men. Would I had his Disease,
Tyed like a Leprosie to my posterity,
So he were right again.
Cle. What is his Malady?
Cam. Nothing but sad and silent melancholy,
Laden with griefs and thoughts, no man knows why neither;
The good Brandino Father to the Princess
Used all the art and industry that might be,
To free Alphonso from this dull calamity,
And seat him in his rule, he was his eldest
And noblest too, had not fair nature stopt in him,
For which cause this was chosen to inherit,
Frederick the younger.
Cle. Does he use his Brother
With that respect and honour that befits him?
Cam. He is kept privately, as they pretend,
To give more ease and comfort to his sickness;
But he has honest servants, the grave Rugio,
And Fryar Marco, that wait upon his Person.
And in a Monastery he lives.
Men. 'Tis full of sadness,
To see him when he comes to his Fathers Tomb,
As once a day that is his Pilgrimage,
Whilst in Devotion, the Quire sings an Anthem:
How piously he kneels, and like a Virgin
That some cross Fate had cozen'd of her Love,
Weeps till the stubborn Marble sweats with pity,
And to his groans the whole Quire bears a Chorus.
Enter Frederick, Sorano, with the Cabinet, and Podramo.
Cam. So do I too. The King with his Contrivers,
This is no place for us. [Exeunt Lords.
Fred. This is a jewel,
Lay it aside, what paper's that?