To have such power in my death-bringing voice,
See how in steade of teares and hartie sighes;
Of foulded armes and sorrow-speaking lookes,
I doe behold with cheerefull countenance
The livelesse roote of my nativitie,
And thanke her hasty soule that thence did goe
To keep her from her sonne and husbandes woe.--
Now, father, give attention to my tale;
I will not dip my griefe-deciphering tongue
In bitter wordes of reprehension.
Your deeds have throwne more mischiefes on your head
Then wit or reason can remove againe;
For to be briefe, _Pertillo_, (oh that name
Cannot be nam'de without a hearty sigh!)
Is murthered, and--

_Fal_. What and? this newes is good.

_Allen_. The men which you suborn'd to murther him--

_Fal_. Better and better, then it cannot out,
Unlesse your love will be so scripulous [_sic_]
That it will overthrowe your selfe and me.

_Allen_. The best is last, and yet you hinder me.
The Duke of _Padua_ hunting in the wood,
Accompanied with Lordes and Gentlemen--

_Fal_. Swones what of that? what good can come of that?