Yes, fortune may bereave me of my crown:
Here, take it now; let fortune do her worst,
She will 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 wilful-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 than 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[57] bloody wars have spent my treasure;
And with my treasure my people's blood;
And with their 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, his but[58] young and green;
My death were natural, but his was forced.
Alexandro.
No doubt, my liege, but still the prince survives.
Viceroy.
Survives! ay, where?[59]
Alexandro.
In Spain, a prisoner by mischance of war.
Viceroy.
Then they have slain him for his father's fault.