And prie into my close intendements.

_Enter Alenso sad_.

Mas, here a comes: his downcast sullen looke,
Is over-waigh'd with mightie discontent.--
I hope the brat is posted to his sire,
That he is growne so lazie of his pace;
Forgetfull of his dutie, and his tongue
Is even fast tyde with strings of heavinesse.--
Come hether, boye! sawst thou my obstacle,
That little _Dromus_ that crept into my sonne,
With friendly hand remoov'd and thrust away?
Say, I, and please me with the sweetest note
That ever relisht in a mortals mouth.

_Allen_. I am a Swan that singe, before I dye,
Your note of shame and comming miserie.

_Fall_. Speake softly, sonne, let not thy mother heare;
She was almost dead before for very feare.

_Allen_. Would I could roare as instruments of warre,
Wall-battring Cannons, when the Gun powder
Is toucht with part of _Etnas_ Element!
Would I could bellow like enraged Buls,
Whose harts are full of indignation,
To be captiv'd by humaine pollicie!
Would I could thunder like Almightie _Ioue_,
That sends his farre-heard voice to terrifie