Bev. Furbo, no more, unless thy words were charms
Of power to revive him. Antonio's dead;
He's dead, and in his death hath buried
All my delights: my ears are deaf to music
That sounds of pleasure. Sing, then, the dolfull'st notes
That e'er were set by melancholy: O Antonio!
Furbo sings this song.
Flow, streams of liquid salt from my sad eyes,
To celebrate his mournful exequies.
Antonio's dead; he's dead, and I remain
To draw my poor life in continual pain,
Till it have paid to his sad memory
Duty of love: O, then most willingly
Drown'd with my tears, as he with waves, I die.
Bev. Break thy sad strings, sad[323] instrument—O, strange, he's here!
Signior Antonio! my heart's sweet content!
My life and better portion of my soul!
Are you return'd, and safe? for whose sad death
I spent such streams of tears and gusts of sighs?
Or is't my love, that to my longing fancy
Frames your desired shape, and mocks my senses?
Trin. Whom do you talk withal, fair gentlewoman?
Bev. With my best friend, commander of my life,
My most belov'd Antonio.
Trin. With me!
What's your desire with me, sweet lady?
Bev. Sir, to command me, as you have done ever,
To what you please: for all my liberty
Lies in your service.
Trin. Now I smell the business.
This is some gentlewoman enamour'd
With him whose shape I bear. Fie, what an ass
Was I to strange myself, and lose the occasion
Of a good banquet and her company.
I'll mend it as I can. [Aside.] Madam, I did but jest,
To try if absence caus'd you to forget
A friend that lov'd you ever.
Bev. Forget Antonio,
Whose dear remembrance doth inform the soul
Of your poor servant, Bevilona! No,
No; had you died, it had not quench'd one spark
Of th' sweet affection which your love hath kindl'd
In this warm breast.