Page:The Tragedy of the Duchesse of Malfy (1623).pdf/78

 Upon thy pale lips I will melt my heart To store them with fresh colour: who's there? Some cordiall drinke: Alas! I dare not call: So pitty, would destroy pitty: her Eye opes, And heaven in it, seemes to ope, (that late was shut) To take me up to merry.

Dutch. Antonio.

Bos. Yes (Madam) he is living, The dead bodies you saw, were but faign'd statues; He's reconcil'd to your brothers: the Pope hath wrought The attonement.

Dutch. Mercy.

Bos. Oh, she's gone againe: there the cords of life broake: Oh sacred Innocence, that sweetely sleepes On Turtles feathers: whil'st a guilty conscience Is a blacke Register, wherein is writ All our good deedes, and bad: a Perspective That showes us hell; that we cannot be suffer'd To doe good when we have a mind to it? This is manly sorrow: These teares, I am very certaine, never grew In my Mothers Milke. My estate is suncke Below the degree of feare: where were These penitent fountaines, while she was living? Oh, they were frozen up: here is a sight As direfull to my soule, as is the sword Unto a wretch hath slaine his father: Come, I'll beare thee hence. And execute thy last will; that's deliver Thy body to the reverend dispose Of some good women: that the cruell tyrant Shall not denie me: Then I'll poast to Millaine, Where some what I will speedily enact Worth my dejection.