Emil. Pray you say nothing, pray you,
Who cannot feel, nor see the rain being in't,
Knows neither wet, nor dry, if that you were
The ground-piece of some Painter, I would buy you
T'instruct me 'gainst a capital grief indeed
Such heart-pierc'd demonstration; but alas
Being a natural Sister of our Sex
Your sorrow beats so ardently upon me:
That it shall make a counter-reflect 'gainst
My Brothers heart, and warm it to some pity
Though it were made of stone: pray have good comfort:
Thes. Forward to th' Temple, leave not out a jot
O' th' sacred ceremony.
1 Qu. Oh this celebration
Will long last, and be more costly than
Your Suppliants war: Remember that your Fame
Knowls in the ear o'th' world: what you do quickly,
Is not done rashly; your first thought is more,
Than others laboured meditance: your premeditating
More than their actions: But oh Jove, your actions,
Soon as they move, as Asprays do the fish,
Subdue before they touch: think, dear Duke think
What beds our slain Kings have.
2 Qu. What griefs our beds
That our dear Lords have none.
3 Qu. None fit for th' dead:
Those that with Cords, Knives, Drams precipitance,
Weary of this worlds light, have to themselves
Been deaths most horrid Agents, humane grace
Affords them dust and shadow.
1 Qu. But our Lords
Lie blist'ring 'fore the visitating Sun,
And were good Kings, when living.
Thes. It is true, and I will give you comfort,
To give your dead Lords graves:
The which to do must make some work with Creon.
1 Qu. And that work presents it self to th' doing:
Now 'twill take form, the heats are gone to morrow,
Then bootless toil must recompence it self,
With its own sweat; Now he's secure,
Not dre[a]ms, we stand before your puissance
Wrinching our holy begging in our eyes
To make petition clear.
2 Qu. Now you may take him,
Drunk with his victory.
3 Qu. And his Army full
Of Bread, and sloth.