And let us prosecute the murtherer
With all the care and diligence we can.

[_Two must be carrying away Pertillo_

_Allen_. Forbeare awhile to beare away my joy,
Which now is vanisht since his life is fled;
And give me leave to wash his deadly wound
With hartie teares, outflowing from those eyes
Which lov'd his sight, more then the sight of heaven.
Forgive me God for this idolatrie!
Thou ugly monster, grim imperious death,
Thou raw-bonde lumpe of foule deformitie,
Reguardlesse instrument of cruell fate,
Unparciall Sergeant, full of treacherie,
Why didst thou flatter my ill-boding thoughts,
And flesh my hopes with vaine illusions?
Why didst thou say, _Pertillo_ should not dye,
And yet, oh yet, hast done it cruelly?
Oh but beholde, with what a smiling cheere,
He intertain'd thy bloody harbinger!
See, thou transformer of a heavenly face
To Ashie palenesse and unpleasing lookes,
That his fair countenance still retaineth grace
Of perfect beauty in the very grave.
The world would say such beauty should not dye;
Yet like a theefe thou didst it cruelly.
Ah, had thy eyes, deepe-sunke into thy head,
Beene able to perceive his vertuous minde,
Where vertue sat inthroned in a chaire,