2D OFFICER. How came this, sir? The king must know.
GOV. From yon old fellow's prattling All your intents; he reveal'd largely to her, And she was troubled with a foolish pride To stand upon her honour, and so died.
1ST OFFICER. We have done the king good service to kill him-- More than we were aware of; but this news Will make a mad court: 'twill be a hard office To be a flatterer now, his grace will run Into so many moods, there'll be no finding of him: As good seek a wild hare without a hound now. A vengeance of your babbling! these old fellows Will hearken after secrets as their lives, But keep 'em in, e'en as they keep their wives.
GOV. What a comfort 'tis To see 'em gone without her; faith, she told me Her everlasting sleep would bring me joy, Yet I was still unwilling to believe her, Her life was so sweet to me, like some man In time of sickness, that would rather wish (To please his fearful flesh) his former health Restor'd to him than death, when after trial, If it were possible, ten thousand worlds Could not entice him to return again, And walk upon the earth from whence he flew: So stood my wish, joy'd in her life and breath, Now gone, there is no heav'n but after death. Come, thou delicious treasure of mankind, To him that knows what virtuous woman is, And can discreetly love her! the whole world Yields not a jewel like her, ransack rocks And caves beneath the deep! O thou fair spring Of honest and religious desires, Fountain of weeping honour, I will kiss thee After death's marble lip! thou'rt cold enough To lie entomb'd now by thy[467] father's side Without offence in kindred; there I'll place thee With one I lov'd the dearest next to thee; Help me to mourn, all that love chastity. [_Exit._
[465] [Compare Hazlitt's "Popular Poetry," iii. 131.]
_Enter_ VOTARIUS, _with_ ANSELMUS'S _Lady_.
VOT. Pray, forgive me, madam; come, thou shalt!
WIFE. I' faith, 'twas strangely done, sir.
WIFE. Is that enough to help it, sir? 'tis easy To draw a lady's honour in suspicion, But not so soon recover'd, and confirm'd To the first faith again, from whence you brought it: Your wit was fetch'd out about other business, Or such forgetfulness had never seiz'd you.
VOT. 'Twas but an overflowing, a spring tide In my affection, rais'd by too much love; And that's the worst words you can give it, madam.