Vir. Alas, sir! I know your grief.
Ros. 'Twas that that fetch'd you hither.
[Aside.
Vir. Y' have lost a worthy and a hopeful son;
But heaven, that always gives, will sometimes take,
And that the best. There is no balsam left us
To cure such wounds as these but patience;
There is no disputing with the acts of heaven;
But, if there were, in what could you accuse
Those powers that else have been so liberal to you,
And left you yet one comfort in your age,
A fair and virtuous daughter.
Ros. Now it begins.
[Aside.
Vir. Your blood is not extinct, nor your age childless:
From that fair branch that's left may come much fruit
To glad posterity: think on that, my lord.
Pol. Nay, heaven forbid I should repine,
At what the justice of those powers ordain;
It has pleased them to confine my care
Only to one; and to see her well bestow'd
Is all the comfort that I now must look for;
But if it had pleas'd heaven that my son—
Ah, my Eugenio!
[He weeps.
Vir. Alas, good gentleman!
Ros. 'Fore heaven, he does it rarely!
[Aside.
Vir. But, sir, remember yourself, remember your daughter; let not your grief for the dead make you forget the living, whose hopes and fortunes depend upon your safety.