Pir. The Lord de Castro—I know him: and methinks
Some sparks of his father, great Velasco's, character
Shines in this young man through all the darkness
Of his fate.
Samp. That name alone has glory enough
To make him a brave presage to us.
The duke's father's character was deriv'd,
And circled in himself; and a full age
Of men shall rarely show another of
So much great and balanc'd man in't.
Pir. They are all court-fancies; pageants of state:
And want allowance both of brain and soul,
To make their blood and titles weight
Samp. He was strangely
Shuffled to the block.
Pir. That blow did bleed Castile too weak,
And left us in a faint and sickly pang.
Samp. The pulse, sir, of Castile beats in another temper,
Than when you left it.
Pir. I find it: The city wears a cap, and looks
As if all were not right there.
Samp. Except their wives.
Pir. The court, methinks, has strangely chang'd
Complexion too.
Samp. Those that deride us say the clergy
Has catch'd the falling-sickness: the court, a deep
Consumption; and that the commons have the spleen.