Cob.
Come, madam, happily escap'd. Here let us sit;
This place is far remote from any path;
And here a while our weary limbs may rest
To take refreshing, free from the pursuit
Of envious Rochester.

L. Cob.
But where, my lord,
Shall we find rest for our disquiet minds?
There dwell untamed thoughts, that hardly stoop
To such abasement of disdained rags:
We were not wont to travel thus by night,
Especially on foot.

Cob.
No matter, love;
Extremities admit no better choice,
And, were it not for thee, say froward time
Impos'd a greater task, I would esteem it
As lightly as the wind that blows upon us.
But in thy sufferance I am doubly task'd;
Thou wast not wont to have the earth thy stool,
Nor the moist dewy grass thy pillow, nor
Thy chamber to be the wide horizon.

L. Cob.
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 itself, should he now seize upon me. [She produces some bread and cheese, and a bottle.
Behold, what my foresight hath underta'en,
For fear we faint; they are but homely cates;
Yet sawc'd with hunger, they may seem as sweet
As greater dainties we were wont to taste.

Cob.
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 overflow'd?
Follows not darkness, when the day is gone?
And see we not sometimes the eye of heaven
Dimm'd with o'er-flying clouds^{3 note}


? 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 madam,
In this one draught I wash my sorrow down. [Drinks.

L. Cob.
And I, encourag'd with your chearful speech,
Will do the like.

Cob.
'Pray God, poor Harpool 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.

L. Cob.
Fear not, my lord, he's witty to devise,
And strong to execute a present shift.

Cob.
That power be still his guide, hath guided us!
My drowsy eyes wax heavy; early rising,
Together with the travel we have had,
Makes me that I could gladly take a nap,
Were I perswaded we might be secure.

L. Cob.
Let that depend on me: whilst you do sleep,
I'll watch that no misfortune happen us.

Cob.
I shall, dear wife, be too much trouble to thee.

L. Cob.
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 inserts the one;
The other nature hath denied me use.
But what talk I of means to purchase that
Is freely happen'd? Sleep with gentle hand
Hath shut his eye-lids. O victorious labour,
How soon thy power can charm the body's sense?
And now thou likewise climb'st unto my brain,
Making my heavy temples stoop to thee.
Great God of heaven from danger keep us free! [Falls asleep.

Enter sir Richard Lee, and his Servants.

Sir Rich.
A murder closely done? and in my ground?
Search carefully; if any where it were,
This obscure thicket is the likeliest place. [Exit a servant. Re-enter Servant bearing a dead body.

Ser.
Sir, I have found the body stiff with cold,
And mangled cruelly with many wounds.

Sir Rich.
Look, if thou know'st him; turn his body up.
Alack, it is my son, my son and heir,
Whom two years since I sent to Ireland,
To practise 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 sluic'd out his blood. Unhappy hour!
Accursed place! but most inconstant fate,
That hadst reserv'd him from the bullet's fire,
And suffer'd him to scape the wood-kerns' fury^{4 note}

And, which is most afflicting to my soul,
That this his death and murder should be wrought
Without the knowledge by whose means 'twas done.

2 Ser.
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.

Sir Rich.
Just judgment of that power, whose gracious eye,
Loathing the sight of such a heinous fact,
Dazzled their senses with benumming sleep^{5 note}

Cob.
What mean you, sir, to trouble weary souls,
And interrupt us of our quiet sleep?

Sir Rich.
O devilish! can you boast unto yourselves
Of quiet sleep, having within your hearts
The guilt of murder waking, that with cries^{6 note}
Deafs the loud thunder, and solicits heaven
With more than mandrakes' shrieks for your offence^{7 note}?

L. Cob.
What murder? You upbraid us wrongfully.

Sir Rich.
Can you deny the fact? see you not here
The body of my son, by you misdone^{8 note}

Look on his wounds, look on his purple hue:
Do we not find you where the deed was done?
Were not your knives fast closed in your hands?
Is not this cloth an argument beside,
Thus stain'd and spotted with his innocent blood?
These speaking characters, were there nothing else
To plead against you, would convict you both.
To Hertford with them, where the 'sizes now
Are kept; their lives shall answer for my son's
Lost life.

Cob.
As we are innocent, so may we speed.

Sir Rich.
As I am wrong'd, so may the law proceed. [Exeunt.

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