Fort. O Andelocia, Ampedo, now Death
Sounds his third summons, I must hence! These jewels
To both I do bequeath; divide them not,
But use them equally: never bewray
What virtues are in them; for if you do,
Much shame, much grief, much danger follows you.
Peruse this book; farewell! behold in me
The rotten strength of proud mortality. [Dies.
Amp. His soul is wandering to the Elysian shades.
Andel. The flower that’s fresh at noon, at sunset fades.
Brother, close you down his eyes, because you were his eldest; and with them close up your tears, whilst I as all younger brothers do, shift for myself: let us mourn, because he’s dead, but mourn the less, because he cannot revive. The honour we can do him, is to bury him royally; let’s about it then, for I’ll not melt myself to death with scalding sighs, nor drop my soul out at mine eyes, were my father an emperor.
Amp. Hence, hence, thou stop’st the tide of my true tears.
True grief is dumb, though it hath open ears.
Andel. Yet God send my grief a tongue, that I may have good utterance for it: sob on, brother mine, whilst you sigh there, I’ll sit and read what story my father has written here.
[They both fall asleep: Fortune and a company of Satyrs enter with music, and playing about Fortunatus’ body, take it away. Afterwards Shadow enters running.
Shad. I can get none, I can find none: where are you, master? Have I ta’en you napping? and you too? I see sorrow’s eye-lids are made of a dormouse skin, they seldom open, or of a miser’s purse, that’s always shut. So ho, master.
Andel. Shadow, why how now? what’s the matter?
Shad. I can get none, sir, ’tis impossible.