Nuntius, Count.
Nun.
See, here's the count Ferneze, I
will tell him
The hapless accident of his brave son,
That he may seek the sooner to redeem
him.
[ Exit Jaques.
God save your lordship.
Count.
You are right welcome, sir.
Nun.
I would I brought such news as
might deserve it.
Count.
What! bring you me ill news?
Nun.
'Tis ill, my lord,
Yet such as usual chance of war affords,
And for which all men are prepar'd that
use it,
And those that use it not but in their friends,
Or in their children.
Count.
Ill news of my son,
My dear and only son, I'll lay my soul!
Ah me accurs'd! thought of his death doth
wound me,
And the report of it will kill me quite.
Nun.
'Tis not so ill, my lord.
Count.
How then?
Nun.
He's taken prisoner, and that's all.
Count.
That's enough, enough;
I set my thoughts on love, on servile love,
Forget my virtuous wife, feel not the
dangers,
The bands and wounds of my own flesh and
blood,
And therein am a madman; therein plagu'd
With the most just affliction under heaven.
Is Maximilian taken prisoner too?
Nun.
No, good my lord; he is return'd
with prisoners.
Count.
Is't possible! can Maximilian
Return and view my face without my son,
For whom he swore such care as for himself?
Nun.
My lord, no care can change the
events of war.
Count.
O in what tempests do my for-
tunes sail!
Still wrack'd with winds more foul and con-
trary
3Than any northern gust, or southern flawe,
That ever yet inforc'd the sea to gape,
And swallow the poor merchant's traffick up.
First in Vicenza lost I my first son,
Next here in Milan my most dear lov'd
lady,
And now my Paulo prisoner to the French;
Which last being printed with my other
griefs,
Doth make so huge a volume, that my
breast
Cannot contain them. But this is my love;
I must make love to Rachel: heaven hath
thrown
This vengeance on me most deservedly,
Were it for nought but wronging of my
steward.
Nun.
My lord, since only money may redress
The worst of this misfortune, be not griev'd;
Prepare his ransom, and your noble son
Shall greet your cheared eyes with the
more honour.
Count.
I will prepare his ransom; gra-
cious heaven
Grant his imprisonment may be his worst,
Honour'd and soldier-like imprisonment,
And that he be not manacled and made
A drudge to his proud foe. And here I
vow,
Never to dream of seemless amorous toys,
Nor aim at other joy on earth,
[ Exeunt.
But the fruition of mine only son.
3 Than any northern GUEST or southern flaw.] Common sense here tells us, that guest is a corruption from gust. The only copy of this play is a very erroneous one, of 1609; and faults of the press, like the preceding one, occur in every page: but as these are easily set right, it would be impertinent to trouble the reader with a note, for every such alteration.