Pier. He grieves; laugh, Strotzo, laugh. He weeps.
Hath he tears? O pleasure! hath he tears?
Now do I scourge Andrugio with steel whips
Of knotty vengeance. Strotzo, cause me straight
Some plaining ditty to augment despair.
[Exit Strotzo.
Triumph, Piero: hark, he groans. O rare!
Ant. Behold a prostrate wretch laid on his tomb.
His epitaph, thus: Ne plus ultra. Ho!
Let none out-woe me: mine’s Herculean woe.
[A song within.—Exit Piero at the end of the song.
Enter Maria.
Ant. May I be more cursed than Heaven can make me, if
I’m not more wretched than man can conceive me. 140
Sore forlorn orphant, what omnipotence
Can make thee happy?
Mar. How now, sweet son? Good youth,
What dost thou?
Ant. Weep, weep.