Alb. Were you but private unto what we know——
Pan. I’ll know it all; first let’s inter the dead.
Let’s dig his grave with that shall dig the heart,
Liver, and entrails of the murderer.
[They strike the stage with their daggers, and the grave openeth.
Ant. Wilt sing a dirge, boy?
Pan. No, no song; ’twill be vile out of tune.
Alb. Indeed, he’s hoarse; the poor boy’s voice is crack’d. 90
Pan. Why, coz! why should it not be hoarse and crack’d,
When all the strings of nature’s symphony
Are crack’d and jar? Why should his voice keep tune,
When there’s no music in the breast of man?
I’ll say an honest antic rhyme I have:
Help me, good sorrow-mates, to give him grave.
[They all help to carry Feliche to his grave.
Death, exile, plaints, and woe,
Are but man’s lackeys, not his foe.
No mortal ’scapes from fortune’s war
Without a wound, at least a scar. 100
Many have led thee[313] to the grave;
But all shall follow, none shall save.
Blood of my youth, rot and consume;
Virtue in dirt doth life assume.
With this old saw close up this dust:—
Thrice blessèd man that dieth just.
Ant. The gloomy wing of night begins to stretch
His lazy pinion o’er the air.
We must be stiff and steady in resolve;
Let’s thus our hands, our hearts, our arms involve. 110