Alb. ’Tis reason’s glory to command affects.[230]
Ant. Lies thy cold father dead, his glossèd eyes
New closèd up by thy sad mother’s hands?
Hast thou a love, as spotless as the brow
Of clearest heaven, blurr’d with false defames?
Are thy moist entrails crumpled up with grief 280
Of parching mischiefs? Tell me, does thy heart
With punching anguish spur thy gallèd ribs?
Then come, let’s sit[231] and weep and wreathe our arms:
I’ll hear thy counsel.
Alb. Take comfort.
Ant. Confusion to all comfort! I defy it.
Comfort’s a parasite, a flattering jack,[232]
And melts resolv’d despair. O boundless woe,
If there be any black yet unknown grief,
If there be any horror yet unfelt, 290
Unthought of mischief in thy fiend-like power,
Dash it upon my miserable head;
Make me more wretch, more cursèd if thou canst!
O, now my fate is more than I could fear:
My woes more weighty than my soul can bear.
[Exit.
Pan. Ha, ha, ha!
Alb. Why laugh you, uncle? That’s my coz, your son,
Whose breast hangs casèd in his cluttered[233] gore.
Pan. True, man, true: why, wherefore should I weep?
Come, sit, kind nephew: come on; thou and I 300
Will talk as chorus to this tragedy.
Entreat the music strain their instruments
With a slight touch, whilst we—Say on, fair coz.
Alb. He was the very hope of Italy,
[Music sounds softly.