Phy. It was monstrous indeed. He lost his mistress,
Barbarously murder'd by her perfidious uncle:
Her urn is in Cirrha, which my lord nightly
Visits, and presents it all his contracted
Sighs of the fled day; but at his parting
Re-assumeth more by thinking she is not:
To whose dear memory his tears and griefs
Are offered. He's now alone, and the
Religious awe which makes our priests retire,
Before they do adore th' incensed powers,
Is seen in him, who never dares approach
Her honoured tomb, till a just contemplation of
His loss hath made his sorrow eloquent.
See! he comes. If, when he parts, your haste
Will license you, I will relate the story
Of his unequall'd sufferings.
Enter Lysicles.
Lys. Do you depart to-night?
Agen. This hour, my lord.
Lys. I will not wrong you to entreat your care
In suddenly delivering these small packets;
But lest you should believe they are merely
Ceremonious, and so bear any date, I now
Inform you, I'm concern'd in nothing nearer.
My griefs excepted.
Agen. I wish your lordship's happiness.
Lys. First, wish me a captivity; for as
I am i' th' instant, if Heaven should pour
His blessings on me, their quality would alter.
Sir, good night. [Exit.
Phy. Sir, you are sad.
Agen. He has no heart to joy that can be otherwise,
That sees this glorious youth groan under his
Harsh fate.
Phy. What a sad accent had each word he uttered?