Gal. What, good Balurdo?
Bal. O, do me right:—Sir Jeffrey Balurdo; sir, sir, as long as ye live, sir.
Gal. What, good Sir Jeffrey Balurdo?
Bal. Marry forsooth, I’ll carry for my device my grandfather’s great stone horse, flinging up his head, and jerking out his left leg: the word, “Wighy Purt.” As I am a true knight, will’t not be most retort and obtuse, ha? 101
Ant. Blow hence these sapless jests. I tell you, bloods,
My spirit’s heavy, and the juice of life
Creeps slowly through my stiffen’d arteries.
Last sleep, my sense was steep’d in horrid dreams:
Three parts of night were swallow’d in the gulf
Of ravenous time, when to my slumb’ring powers,
Two meagre ghosts made apparition.
The one’s breast seem’d fresh paunch’d with bleeding wounds,
Whose bubbling gore sprang in [my] frighted eyes; 110
The other ghost assum’d my father’s shape:
Both cried, “Revenge!” At which my trembling joints,
Icèd quite over with a frozed cold sweat,[217]
Leap’d forth the sheets. Three[218] times I g[r]asp’d at shades,
And thrice, deluded by erroneous sense,
I forc’d my thoughts make stand; when lo, I oped[219]
A large bay window, th[o]rough which the night
Struck terror to my soul. The verge of heaven
Was ring’d with flames, and all the upper vault
Thick-lac’d with flakes of fire; in midst whereof 120
A blazing comet shot his threat’ning train
Just on my face. Viewing these prodigies,
I bow’d my naked knee and pierc’d the star
With an outfacing eye, pronouncing thus:
Deus imperat astris. At which, my nose straight bled;
Then doubted I my word, so slunk to bed. 126
Bal. Verily, Sir Jeffrey had a monstrous strange dream the last night. For methought I dreamt I was asleep, and methought the ground yawn’d and belkt up the abhominable ghost of a misshapen simile, with two ugly pages; the one called master, even as going before; and the other mounser,[220] even so following after; whilst
Signior Simile stalk’d most prodigiously in the midst. At which I bewray’d[221] the fearfulness of my nature, and being ready to forsake the fortress of my wit, start up, called for a clean shirt, ate a mess of broth, and with that I awaked.
Ant. I prithee, peace. I tell you, gentlemen,
The frightful shades of night yet shake my brain:
My jellied[222] blood’s not thaw’d: the sulphur damps, 140
That flew[223] in wingèd lightning ’bout my couch,
Yet stick within my sense, my soul is great
In expectation of dire prodigies.
Pan. Tut, my young prince, let not thy fortunes see
Their lord a coward. He that’s nobly born
Abhors to fear: base fear’s the brand of slaves.
He that observes, pursues, slinks back for fright,
Was never cast in mould of noble sprite.