And. Sweet precious issue of most honour’d blood,
Rich hope, ripe virtue, O untimely loss!
Come hither, friend: prithee, do not weep.
Why, I am glad he’s dead; he shall not see
His father’s vanquish’d by his enemy,
Even in princely honour. Nay, prithee, speak!
How died the wretched boy?
Lu. My lord!
And. I hope he died yet like my son, i’faith. 300
Lu. Alas, my lord!
And. He died unforced, I trust, and valiantly?
Lu. Poor gentleman, being——
And. Did his hand shake, or his eye look dull,
His thoughts reel fearful when he struck the stroke?
And if they did, I’ll rend them out the hearse,
Rip up his cerecloth, mangle his bleak face,
That when he comes to heaven, the powers divine,
Shall ne’er take notice that he was my son:
I’ll quite disclaim his birth. Nay, prithee, speak! 310
And ’twere not hooped with steel, my breast would break.
Mel. O that my spirit in a sigh could mount
Into the sphere where thy sweet soul doth rest!
Pier. O that my tears, bedewing thy wan cheek,
Could make new spirit sprout in thy cold blood!
Bal. Verily, he looks as pitifully as a poor John;[186]