Lys. Hark! I am call'd, the fatal news is come.
[Draws.
Eug. Fie! how unmanly's this? Can sounds affright you,
Which yet you know not whether they do bring
Or joys or sorrows? When remedies are despair'd of,
You have still leave to die. Perhaps she lives,
And you'll exhale her soul into your wounds,
And be the death of her you mourn for living.
Within. Where's Prince Lysicles? Where's Prince Lysicles?
Eug. It is the voice of comfort; none would strive
To be a sad relator. I'll call him. Holla!
Here he is.
Enter a Servant.
Ser. The strange lady kisses
Your hands, my lord: Arnaldo has restored her;
She bid me say your sight can only give
Perfection to what he has begun.
Eug. Will you die now?
Lys. Softly, good friend: gently let it
Slide into my breast; my heart is too narrow yet
To take so full a joy in.
You're sure this news is true?
Ser. Upon my life.