Florence.
Enter the two French Lords, and two or three Soldiers.
1 Lord.
What hear you of these wars?
2 Lord.
I hear, there is an overture of peace.
1 Lord.
Nay, I assure you, a peace concluded.
2 Lord.
What will Count Rousillon do then? Will
he travel higher, or return again to France?
1 Lord.
I perceive, by this demand, you are not
altogether of his council.
2 Lord.
Let it be forbid, sir! so should I be a great
deal of his act.
1 Lord.
Sir, his wife some two months since fled
from his house, her pretence is a pilgrimage to St.
-- 280 --
Jaques le Grand; which holy undertaking, with
most austere sanctimony, she accomplish'd; and there
residing, through the tenderness of her nature became
as a prey to her grief; in fine, made a groan of her
last breath, and now she sings in Heaven.
2 Lord.
Hath the count all this intelligence? The
great dignity that his valour hath here acquir'd for
him, shall at home be encounter'd with a shame as
ample.
1 Lord.
The web of our life is of a mingled yarn,
good and ill together: our virtues would be proud,
if our faults whipt them not; and our crimes would
despair, if they were not cherish'd by our virtues.* note
Enter Bertram.
1 Lord.
Here's his lordship now. How now, my
lord, is it not after midnight?
Ber.
I have to-night dispatcht sixteen businesses, a
month's length a-piece, by an abstract of success; I
have congied with the duke, done my adieu with his
nearest; buried a wife; mourn'd for her; writ to my
lady mother, I am returning; entertain'd my convoy;
and, between these main parcels of dispatch, effected
many nicer needs; the last was the greatest. But
come, bring forth this counterfeit medal; h'as deceiv'd
me, like a double-meaning prophesier.
2 Lord.
Bring him forth; h'as fate in the stocks, all
night, poor gallant knave.
Ber.
No matter; his heels have deserv'd it, in
usurping his spurs so long. How does he carry himself?
1 Lord.
He hath confess'd himself to Morgan,
whom he supposes to be a friar, from the time of his
remembrance to this very instant disaster of his setting
i'th' stocks; and what, think you, he has confest?
Ber.
Nothing of me, has he?
2 Lord.
His confession is taken, and it shall be read
to his face; if your lordship be in't, as I believe you
are, you must have the patience to hear it.
-- 281 --
John Bell [1774], Bell's Edition of Shakespeare's Plays, As they are now performed at the Theatres Royal in London; Regulated from the Prompt Books of each House By Permission; with Notes Critical and Illustrative; By the Authors of the Dramatic Censor (Printed for John Bell... and C. Etherington [etc.], York) [word count] [S10401].
