Pan. Why, there’s the comfort on’t, that he was good.
Alas, poor innocent!
Alb. Why weeps mine uncle?
Pan. Ha, dost ask me why? ha, ha!
Good coz, look here!
[He shows him his son’s breast.
Man will break out, despite philosophy.
Why, all this while I ha’ but played a part, 70
Like to some boy that acts a tragedy,
Speaks burly words, and raves out passion;
But, when he thinks upon his infant weakness,
He droops his eye. I spake more than a god,
Yet am less than a man.
I am the miserablest soul that breathes.
[Antonio starts up.
Ant. ’Slid, sir, ye lie! by the heart of grief, thou liest!
I scorn’d that any wretched should survive,
Outmounting me in that superlative,
Most miserable, most unmatch’d in woe. 80
Who dare assume that but Antonio?
Pan. Wilt still be so, and shall yon blood-hound live?
Ant. Have I an arm, a heart, a sword, a soul?