Thier. Phisitians, halfe my state to sleepe an houre now;
Is it so mother?
Brun. Yes it is so sonne;
And were it yet againe to do, it should be.
Mart. She nods againe, swing her.
Thier. But mother,
For yet I love that reverence, and to death
Dare not forget you have bin so; was this,
This endlesse misery, this curelesse malice,
This snatching from me all my youth together,
All that you made me for, and happy mothers
Crownde with eternall time are proud to finish,
Done by your will?
Brun. It was, and by that will.
Thier. O mother, do not lose your name, forget not
The touch of nature in you, tendernes
'Tis all the soule of woman, all the sweetnesse;
Forget not I beseech you what are children,
Nor how you [have] gron'd for um, to what love
They are borne inheritors, with what care kept,
And as they rise to ripenesse still remember
How they impe out your age; and when time calls you,
That as an Autum flower you fall, forget not
How round about your hearse they hang like penons.
Brun. Holy foole,
Whose patience to prevent my wrongs has kill'd thee,
Preach not to me of punishments, or feares,
Or what I ought to be, but what I am,
A woman in her liberall will defe[at]ed,
In all her greatnesse crost, in pleasure blasted,
My angers have bin laught at, my ends slighted,
And all those glories that had crownd my fortunes,
Suffer'd by blasted vertue to be scatter'd,
I am the fruitefull mother of these angers,
And what such have done, reade, and know thy ruine.
Thier. Heaven forgive you.
Mart. She tells you true, for milions of her mischiefes
Are now apparent, Protaldye, we have taken
An equall agent with her, to whose care
After the damnde defeate on you, she trusted.
Enter Messenger.