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LOR.

Me, next in sight, as messenger they sent

To giue him notice that they were so nigh:

Now, when I came, consorted with the prince,

And vnexpected in an arbor there

Found Bel-imperia with Horatio—

BEL.

How then?

LOR.

Why, then, remembring that olde disgrace

Which you for Don Andrea had indurde,

And now were likely longer to sustaine

By being found so meanely accompanied,

Thought rather, for I knew no readier meane,

To thrust Horatio forth my fathers way.

BAL.

And carry you obscurely some-where els,

Least that his Highnes should haue found you there.

BEL.

Euen so, my lord? And you are witnesse

That this is true which he entreateth of?

You, gentle brother, forged this for my sake?

And you, my lord, were made his instrument?

A worke of worth! worthy the noting too!

But whats the cause that you concealde me since?

LOR.

Your melancholly, sister, since the newes

Of your first fauorite Don Andreas death

My fathers olde wrath hath exasperate.

BAL.

And better wast for you, being in disgrace,

To absent your-selfe and giue his fury place.

BEL.

But why I had no notice of his ire?

LOR.

That were to adde more fewell to your fire,

Who burnt like Aetne for Andreas losse.

BEL.

Hath not my father then enquird for me?

LOR.

Sister, he hath; and this excusde I thee.

He whispereth in her eare.

But, Bel-imperia, see the gentle prince;

Looke on thy loue; beholde yong Balthazar,

Whose passions by the presence are increast,

And in whose melachollie thou maiest see

Thy hate, his loue, thy flight, his following thee.

BEL.

Brother, you are become an oratour—

I know not, I, by what experience—

Too politick for me, past all compare,

Since I last saw you. But content your-selfe;

The prince is meditating higher things.

BAL.

Tis of thy beauty, then, that conquers kings,

Of those thy tresses, Ariadnes twines,

Wherewith my libertie thou hast surprisde,

Of that thine iuorie front, my sorrowes map,

Wherein I see no hauen to rest my hope.

BEL.

To loue and feare, and both at once, my lord,

In my conceipt, are things of more import

Then womens wit are to be busied with.

BAL.

Tis that I loue thee.

BEL.

Whome?

BAL.

Bel-imperia.

BEL.

But that I feare?

BAL.

Whome?

BEL.

Bel-imperia.

LOR.

Feare your-selfe?

BEL.

I, brother.

LOR.

How?

BEL.

As those

That, [when] they loue, are loath and feare to loose.

BAL.

Then, faire, let Balthazar your keeper be.

BEL.

No, Balthazar doth feare as well as we;

Et tremulo metui pauidum iunxere timorem,

Et vanum stolidae proditionis opus.

Exit.

LOR.

Nay, and you argue things so cunningly,

Weele goe continue this discourse at court.

BAL.

Led by the loadstar of heauenly lookes,

Wends poore oppressed Balthazar,

As ore the mountains walkes the wanderer

Incertain to effect his pilgrimage.

Exeunt.

ACT III. SCENE 11.

[A street.]

Enter two PORTINGALES, and HIERONIMO

meets them.

I PORT. By your leaue, sir.

[The following is inserted in the 1618, 1623, and 1633 editions.]

HIER.

Tis neither as you thinke, nor as you thinke,

Nor as you thinke, you'r wide all:

These slippers are not mine, they were my sonne Horatios.

My sonne? And what's a sonne? A thing begot

Within a paire of minutes, there-about;

A lump bred up in darknesse, and doth serue

To ballance those light creatures we call women,

And at nine monethes end creepes foorth to light.

What is there yet in a sonne to make a father

Dote, rave or runne mad? Being born, it pouts,

Cries, and breeds teeth. What is there yet in a sonne?

He must be fed, be taught to goe and speake.

I, and yet? Why might not a man love

A calfe as well, or melt in passion over

A frisking kid, as for a sonne? Me thinkes

A young bacon or a fine smooth little horse-colt

Should moove a man as much as doth a son;

For one of these in very little time

Will grow to some good use, whereas a sonne,

The more he growes in stature and in yeeres,

The more unsquar'd, unlevelled he appeares,

Reckons his parents among the ranke of