LADY COBHAM. How can it seem a trouble, having you A partner with me in the worst I feel? No, gentle Lord, your presence would give ease To death it self, should he now seize upon me. Behold what my foresight hath underta'en
[Here's bread and cheese & a bottle.]
For fear we faint; they are but homely cates, Yet sauced with hunger, they may seem as sweet As greater dainties we were wont to taste.
COBHAM. Praise be to him whose plenty sends both this And all things else our mortal bodies need; Nor scorn we this poor feeding, nor the state We now are in, for what is it on earth, Nay, under heaven, continues at a stay? Ebbs not the sea, when it hath overflown? Follows not darkness when the day is gone? And see we not sometime the eye of heaven Dimmed with overflying clouds: there's not that work Of careful nature, or of cunning art, (How strong, how beauteous, or how rich it be) But falls in time to ruin. Here, gentle Madame, In this one draught I wash my sorrow down.
[Drinks.]
LADY COBHAM. And I, encouraged with your cheerful speech, Will do the like.
COBHAM. Pray God poor Harpoole come. If he should fall into the Bishop's hands, Or not remember where we bade him meet us, It were the thing of all things else, that now Could breed revolt in this new peace of mind.
LADY COBHAM. Fear not, my Lord, he's witty to devise, And strong to execute a present shift.
COBHAM. That power be still his guide hath guided us! My drowsy eyes wax heavy: early rising, Together with the travel we have had, Make me that I could gladly take a nap, Were I persuaded we might be secure.
LADY COBHAM. Let that depend on me: whilst you do sleep, I'll watch that no misfortune happen us. Lay then your head upon my lap, sweet Lord, And boldly take your rest.
COBHAM. I shall, dear wife, Be too much trouble to thee.
LADY COBHAM. Urge not that; My duty binds me, and your love commands. I would I had the skill with tuned voice To draw on sleep with some sweet melody, But imperfection, and unaptness too, Are both repugnant: fear insert the one, The other nature hath denied me use. But what talk I of means to purchase that, Is freely happened? sleep with gentle hand Hath shut his eye-lids. Oh victorious labour, How soon thy power can charm the bodies sense? And now thou likewise climbst unto my brain, Making my heavy temples stoop to thee. Great God of heaven from danger keep us free.
[Both sleep.]
[Enter sir Richard Lee, and his men.]
LEE. A murder closely done, and in my ground? Search carefully, if any where it were, This obscure thicket is the likeliest place.
SERVANT. Sir, I have found the body stiff with cold, And mangled cruelly with many wounds.
LEE. Look if thou knowest him, turn his body up.-- Alack, it is my son, my son and heir, Whom two years since I sent to Ireland, To practice there the discipline of war, And coming home (for so he wrote to me) Some savage heart, some bloody devilish hand, Either in hate, or thirsting for his coin, Hath here sluiced out his blood. Unhappy hour, Accursed place, but most inconstant fate, That hadst reserved him from the bullet's fire, And suffered him to scape the wood-karn's fury, Didst here ordain the treasure of his life, (Even here within the arms of tender peace, And where security gave greatest hope) To be consumed by treason's wasteful hand! And what is most afflicting to my soul, That this his death and murther should be wrought Without the knowledge by whose means twas done.
SECOND SERVANT. Not so, sir; I have found the authors of it. See where they sit, and in their bloody fists, The fatal instruments of death and sin.
LEE. Just judgement of that power, whose gracious eye, Loathing the sight of such a heinous fact, Dazzled their senses with benumbing sleep, Till their unhallowed treachery were known! Awake, ye monsters; murderers, awake; Tremble for horror; blush, you cannot choose, Beholding this inhumane deed of yours.
COBHAM. What mean you, sir, to trouble weary souls, And interrupt us of our quiet sleep?
LEE. Oh devilish! can you boast unto your selves Of quiet sleep, having within your hearts The guilt of murder waking, that with cries Deafs the loud thunder, and solicits heaven With more than Mandrake's shrieks for your offence?
LADY COBHAM. What murder? you upbraid us wrongfully.