Mar. Dost nought but weep, weep?
Ant. Yes, mother, I do sigh, and wring my hands,
Beat my poor breast, and wreathe my tender arms.
Hark ye; I’ll tell you wondrous strange, strange news.
Mar. What, my good boy, stark mad?
Ant. I am not.
Mar. Alas!
Is that strange news? 150
Ant. Strange news? why, mother, is’t not wondrous strange
I am not mad—I run not frantic, ha?
Knowing, my father’s trunk scarce cold, your love
Is sought by him that doth pursue my life!
Seeing the beauty of creation,
Antonio’s bride, pure heart, defamed, and stowed
Under the hatches of obscuring earth!
Heu, quo labor, quo vota ceciderunt mea!
Enter Piero.
Pier. Good evening to the fair Antonio;
Most happy fortune, sweet succeeding time, 160
Rich hope: think not thy fate a bankrout,[257] though——
Ant. [Aside.] Umh! the devil in his good time and tide forsake thee.