FIRST LORD.
Sir, his wife some two months since fled from his house. Her pretence is a pilgrimage to Saint Jaques le Grand; which holy undertaking with most austere sanctimony she accomplished; and there residing, the tenderness of her nature became as a prey to her grief; in fine, made a groan of her last breath, and now she sings in heaven.
SECOND LORD.
How is this justified?
FIRST LORD.
The stronger part of it by her own letters, which makes her story true, even to the point of her death. Her death itself, which could not be her office to say is come, was faithfully confirm’d by the rector of the place.
SECOND LORD.
Hath the count all this intelligence?
FIRST LORD.
Ay, and the particular confirmations, point from point, to the full arming of the verity.
SECOND LORD.
I am heartily sorry that he’ll be glad of this.
FIRST LORD.
How mightily sometimes we make us comforts of our losses!
SECOND LORD.
And how mightily some other times we drown our gain in tears! The great dignity that his valour hath here acquir’d for him shall at home be encountered with a shame as ample.
FIRST LORD.
The web of our life is of a mingled yarn, good and ill together; our virtues would be proud if our faults whipped them not; and our crimes would despair if they were not cherish’d by our virtues.
Enter a Messenger.