ALEX. Two days, my liege, are past since his depart.
VICE. And tribute payment gone along with him?
ALEX. Aye, my good lord.
VICE. Then rest we here a-while in our unrest;
And feed our sorrows with inward sighs,
For deepest cares break never into tears.
But wherefore sit I in a regal throne?
This better fits a wretch's endless moan.
Yet this is higher then my fortunes reach,
And therefore better than my state deserves.
Falls to the ground.
Aye, aye, this earth, image of melancholy,
Seeks him whom fates adjudge to misery!
Here let me lie! Now am I at the lowest!
Qui jacet in terra non habet unde cadat.
In me consumpsit vires fortuna nocendo,
Nil superest ut jam possit obesse magis.
Yes, Fortune may bereave me of my crown—
Here, take it now; let Fortune do her worst,
She shall not rob me of this sable weed.
O, no, she envies none but pleasant things.
Such is the folly of despiteful chance,
Fortune is blind and sees not my deserts,
So is she deaf and hears not my laments;
And, could she hear, yet is she willful mad,
And therefore will not pity my distress.
Suppose that she could pity me, what then?
What help can be expected at her hands
Whose foot is standing on a rolling stone
And mind more mutable then fickle winds?
Why wail I, then, where's hope of no redress?
O, yes, complaining makes my grief seem less.
My late ambition hath distain'd my faith,
My breach of faith occasion'd bloody wars,
Those bloody wars have spent my treasury,
And with my treasury my people's blood,
And with the blood my joy and best belov'd,—
My best belov'd, my sweet and only son!
O, wherefore went I not to war myself?
The cause was mine; I might have died for both.
My years were mellow, but his young and green:
My death were natural, but his was forc'd.
ALEX. No doubt, my liege, but still the prince survives.
VICE. Survives! Ay, where?
ALEX. In Spain, a prisoner by mischance of war.
VICE. Then they have slain him for his father's fault.