Lus. My lord's grace! I perceive you'll have it so.
Noble. 'Tis but your own.
Lus. Then, heavens, give me grace to be so!
Ven. He prays well for himself. [Aside.
Noble. Madam, all sorrows
Must run their circles into joys. No doubt but time
Will make the murderer bring forth himself.
Ven. He were an ass then, i' faith. [Aside.
Noble. In the mean season,
Let us bethink the latest funeral honours
Due to the duke's cold body. And withal,
Calling to memory our new happiness
Speed[113] in his royal son: lords, gentlemen,
Prepare for revels.
Ven. Revels. [Aside.
Noble. Time hath several falls.
Griefs lift up joys: feasts put down funerals.
Lus. Come then, my lords, my favour's to you all.
The duchess is suspected foully bent;
I'll begin dukedom with her banishment.