Menti. Sir, for my Fathers sake acknowledge me
To be born a Gentleman, no slave; I ever
Held flatterers of that breed; do not misconstrue
In your distaste of me, the true intent
Of my coming hither, for I do protest
I do not come to tell you I am sorry
For your sons hurt.
Alber. Not sorry?
Menti. No not sorry; I have to the lowest ebbe, lost all my fury:
But I must not lose my honesty; 'twas he
Gave heat unto the injury, which return'd
(Like a Petar, ill lighted, into 'th' bosome
Of him, gave fire to't) yet I hope his hurt,
Is not so dangerous, but he may recover;
When if it please him, call me to account,
For the loss of so much blood, I shall be ready
To do him noble reason.
Alber. You are arm'd me thinks with wondrous confidence.
Menti. O with the best Sir;
For I bring penitence, and satisfaction.
Alber. Satisfaction? Why I heard you say but now,
You were not sorry for his wounds.
Menti. Nor am I: the satisfaction which I bring Sir, is to you;
You are a Gentleman ne'er injur'd me;
One ever lov'd my Father, the right way,
And most approv'd of noble amity.
Yet I have run my sword quite through your heart,
And slightly hurt your son; for't may be [f]ear'd,
A grief ta'en at these years for your sons loss,
May hazard yours: And therefore I am sent
By him that has most interest in your sorrow;
Who having chid me almost to the ruin
Of a disheritance, for violating
So continued and so sacred a friendship
Of 50 Winters standing: such a friendship,
That ever did continue like the spring;
Ne'er saw the fall o'th' leaf; by him I am sent
To say the wrong I have done Sir, is to you:
And that I have quite lost him for a Father,
Until I find your pardon; nay there follows
A weightier deprivation; his Estate
I could with a less number of sighs part with.
Fortune might attend my youth, and my deservings
In any Climate: but a Fathers blessing,
To settle and confirm that fortune, no where;
But only here. Your pardon, give me that;
And when you have done, kill me; for 'tis that
Takes from me the effect of excommunication;
A Fathers heavy curse.
Alber. Nay, may that curse
Light on himself, for sending thee in this minute:
When I am grown as deaf to all compassion,
As the cruellest Sea-fight, or most horrid tempest.
That I had drown'd i'th' Sea a thousand duckets,
Thou hadst not made this visit: rash young man,
Thou tak'st me in an ill Planet, and hast cause
To curse thy Father; for I do protest,
If I had met thee in any part o'th' World,
But under my own roofe, I would have kill'd thee.
Within there.—Enter Physitian, Chirurgion, and Servants.
Look you!
Here's a triumph sent for the death of your young Master.