Brun. Coward I will meet it,
And know from whence 't has birth: Son, kingly Thierry.
Thier. Is cheating grown so common among men?
And thrives so well here, that the gods endeavour
To practise it above?
Brun. Your Mother.
Thier. Ha! or are they only careful to revenge,
Not to reward? or when, for your offences
We study satisfaction, must the cure
Be worse than the disease?
Brun. Will you not hear me?
Thier. To lose th' ability to perform those duties
For which I entertain'd the name of Husband,
Ask'd more than common sorrow; but t'impose
For the redress of that defect, a torture
In marking her to death, for whom alone
I felt that weakness as a want, requires
More than the making the head bald: or falling
Thus flat upon the earth, or cursing that way,
Or praying this, oh such a Scene of grief,
And so set down, (the world the stage to act on)
May challenge a Tragedian better practis'd
Than I am to express it; for my cause
Of passion is so strong, and my performance
So weak, that though the part be good, I fear
Th'ill acting of it, will defraud it of
The poor reward it may deserve, mens pity.
Brun. I have given you way thus long, a King, and what
Is more, my Son, and yet a slave to that
Which only triumphs over cowards sorrow,
For shame look up.
Thier. Is't you, look down on me:
And if that you are capable to receive it,
Let that return to you, that have brought forth
One mark'd out only for it: what are these?
Come they upon your privilege to tread on
The Tomb of my afflictions?
Prot. No, not we Sir.
Thier. How dare you then omit the ceremony
Due to the funeral of all my hopes,
Or come unto the marriage of my sorrows,
But in such colours as may sort with them?