LUCRECE. The heavens, I hope, will favour your request.
My niece shall not impute the cause to be
In my default, her will should want effect:
But in the king is all my doubt, lest he
My suit for her new marriage should reject.
Yet shall I prove him: and I heard it said,
He means this evening in the park to hunt.[54]
Here will I wait attending his approach.
ACT II., SCENE 2.
TANCRED cometh out of his palace with GUISCARD,
the COUNTY PALURIN, JULIO, the Lord Chamberlain,
RENUCHIO, captain of his guard, all ready to hunt.
TANCRED. Uncouple all our hounds; lords, to the chase—
Fair sister Lucre[ce], what's the news with you?
LUCRECE. Sir, as I always have employ'd my power
And faithful service, such as lay in me,
In my best wise to honour you and yours:
So now my bounden duty moveth me
Your majesty most humbly to entreat
With patient ears to understand the state
Of my poor niece, your daughter.
TANCRED. What of her?
Is she not well? Enjoys she not her health?
Say, sister: ease me of this jealous fear?
LUCRECE. She lives, my lord, and hath her outward health;
But all the danger of her sickness lies
In the disquiet of her princely mind.
TANCRED. Resolve me; what afflicts my daughter so?
LUCRECE. Since when the princess hath entomb'd her lord,
Her late deceased husband of renown;
Brother, I see, and very well perceive,
She hath not clos'd together in his grave
All sparks of nature, kindness, nor of love:
But as she lives, so living may she feel
Such passions as our tender hearts oppress,
Subject unto th'impressions of desire:
For well I wot my niece was never wrought
Of steel, nor carved from the stony rock:
Such stern hardness we ought not to expect
In her, whose princely heart and springing years
Yet flow'ring in the chiefest heat of youth,
Is led of force to feed on such conceits,
As easily befalls that age, which asketh ruth
Of them, whom nature bindeth by foresight
Of their grave years and careful love to reach
The things that are above their feeble force:
And for that cause, dread lord, although—
TANCRED. Sister, I say,
If you esteem or ought respect my life,
Her honour and the welfare of our house,
Forbear, and wade[55] no farther in this speech.
Your words are wounds. I very well perceive
The purpose of this smooth oration:
This I suspected, when you first began
This fair discourse with us. Is this the end
Of all our hopes, that we have promised
Unto ourself by this her widowhood?
Would our dear daughter, would our only joy,
Would she forsake us? would she leave us now,
Before she hath clos'd up our dying eyes,
And with her tears bewail'd our funeral?
No other solace doth her father crave;
But, whilst the fates maintain his dying life,
Her healthful presence gladsome to his soul,
Which rather than he willing would forego,
His heart desires the bitter taste of death.
Her late marriage hath taught us to our grief,
That in the fruits of her perpetual sight
Consists the only comfort and relief
Of our unwieldy age: for what delight,
What joy, what comfort, have we in this world;
Now grown in years, and overworn with cares,
Subject unto the sudden stroke of death,
Already falling, like the mellowed fruit,
And dropping by degrees into our grave?
But what revives us, what maintains our soul
Within the prison of our wither'd breast,
But our Gismunda and her cheerful sight?
O daughter, daughter! what desert of mine,
Wherein have I been so unkind to thee,
Thou shouldst desire to make my naked house
Yet once again stand desolate by thee?
O, let such fancies vanish with their thoughts:
Tell her I am her father, whose estate,
Wealth, honour, life, and all that we possess,
Wholly relies upon her presence here.
Tell her, I must account her all my joy,
Work as she will: but yet she were unjust
To haste his death, that liveth by her sight.