Luc. Sleepe then, and I am pleazd far off to sit
Like to a poore and forlorne Sentinell,
Watching the unthankful sleepe that severs me
From my due part of rest deere love with thee.
She sits farre off from him.
Enter Const. Dutchesse with a willowe garland, cum aliis.
Con. Now are we neere the court of Saxonie, Where the duke dreames such tragicall ostents.
Amb. I wonder we, now treading on his soile, See none of his strange apparitions.
Kath. We are not worthy of such meanes divine,
Nor hath heaven care of our poore lives like his.
I must endure the end and show I live
Though this same plaintive wreathe doth show me forsaken.
Come, let us foorth.
Const. Stay, sister; what faire sight Sits mourning in this desolate abode?
Dut. Faire sight indeed it is, and much to faire To sit so sad and solitarie there.
Con. But what is he that cur-like sleepes alone?
Dut. Look, is it not my Nephew Lassingbergh?