Lecure. It was the fatal means first struck my bloud
With the cold hand of wonder, when I read it
Printed upon your birth.
Thier. Can there be any way unsmooth, has end
So fair and good?
Lecure. We that behold the sad aspects of Heaven,
Leading sence blinded, men feel grief enough
To know, though not to speak their miseries.
Thier. Sorrow must lose a name, where mine finds life;
If not in thee, at least ease pain with speed,
Which must know no cure else.
Lecure. Then thus,
The first of Females which your eye shall meet
Before the Sun next rise, coming from out
The Temple of Diana being slain, you live
Father of many sons.
Thier. Call'st thou this sadness, can I beget a Son?
Deserving less than to give recompence
Unto so poor a loss? what e'er thou art,
Rest peaceable blest creature, born to be
Mother of Princes, whose grave shall be more fruitful
Than others marriage beds: methinks his Art
Should give her form and happy figure to me,
I long to see my happiness, he is gone,
As I remember, he nam'd my brothers Daughter,
Were it my Mother, 'twere a gainful death
Could give Ordella's virtue living breath. [Exeunt.
Actus Quartus. Scæna Prima.
Enter Thierry and Martel.
Mart. Your Grace is early stirring.