Bar. I shall shortly; An everlasting ease, I hope.
Wife. Why weep ye, My deere Sir? speak.
Bar. Never till now unhappie! Thy fruit there and my fall ripen togeather And fortune gives me heires of my disgraces.
Wife. Take nobler thoughts.
Bar. What will becom of thee, Wiffe,
When I am gon? When they have gorgd their envies
With what I have, what honest hand in pitty
Will powre out to thy wants? What noble eye
Will looke upon my Children strooke with miserie
And say 'you had a father that I honourd;
For his sake be my Brothers and my Sisters.'
Wife. There cannot be such crueltie.
Bar. I hope not;
Yet what so confident Sailour that heares the Sea rore,
The winds sing lowd and dreadfull, the day darkend,
But he will cry 'a storme'! downe with his Canvas
And hull, expecting of that horrid feavour?
Enter Son.
—How now? What newes?
Son. Plucke up your hart, Sir, fairely And wither not away thus poorely from us; Be now secure: the myst ye feard is vanishd,— Leidenberch's dead.