_Man_. O Father, speake yet; no, the mercilesse blowe
Hath all bereft speech, motion, sense and life.

_Wom_. O beauteous innocence, whitenes ill blackt,
How to be made a coale didst thou deserve?

_Man_. O reverend wrinckles, well becoming palenesse,
Why hath death now lifes colours given thee
And mockes thee with the beauties of fresh youth?

_Wom_. Why wert thou given me to be tane away
So soone, or could not Heaven tell how to punish
But first by blessing mee?

_Man_. Why where thy years
Lengthened so long to be cut off untimely?

_Nero_. Play on, play on, and fill the golden skies
With cryes and pitie, with your blood; Mens Eyes[57]--

_Wom_. Where are thy flattering smiles, thy pretty kisses,
And armes that wont to writhe about my necke?

_Man_. Where are thy counsels? where thy good example,
And that kind roughnes of a Father's anger?

_Wom_. Whom have I now to leane my old age on?

_Man_. Who shall I now have to set right my youth?
Gods, if yee be not fled from Heaven, helpe us.