Ben. What needs Preparative,
Where such a Cordial is prescrib'd as thou?
Thy person and thy virtues in one scale,
Shall poize hers, with her beautie and her wealth;
If not, I add my will unto thy weight;
Thy mother's with her now. Son, take my keys,
And let this prepar[a]tion for this Marriage,
(This welcome Marriage) long determin'd here,
Be quick, and gorgeous.—Gerrard.
Enter Gerrard.
Ger. My good Lord,
My Lord, your brother craves your conference
Instantly, on affairs of high import.
Ben. Why, what news?
Ger. The Tyrant, my good Lord,
Is sick to death of his old Apoplexie,
Whereon the States advise, that Letters-missive
Be straight dispatcht to all the neighbour-Countreys,
And Schedules too divulg'd on every post,
To enquire the lost Duke forth: their purpose is
To re-instate him.
Ben. 'Tis a pious deed.
Ferdinand, to my daughter: this delay
(Though to so good a purpose) angers me;
But I'll recover it. Be secret, son.
Go woo with truth and expedition. [Exit.
Ferd. O my unsounded joy! how fares my Gerrard,
My noble twin-friend? fie, thy l[oo]k is heavie,
Sullen, and sowre; blanch it: didst thou know
My cause of joy, thou 'ldst never sorrow more,
I know thou lov'st me so, How dost thou?
Ger. Well,
Too well: my fraught of health my sickness is;
In life, I am dead; by living dying still.
Ferd. What sublunary mischief can predominate
A wise man thus? or doth thy friendship play
(In this antipathous extreme) with mine,
Lest gladness suffocate me? I, I, I do feel
My spirit's turn'd to fire, my blood to air,
And I am like a purifi'd essence
Tri'd from all drossie parts.
Ger. Were 't but my life,
The loss were sacrific'd; but virtue
Must for me be slain, and innocence made dust.