ROS. Yes, my lord, With every circumstance: the time, the place, And manner of his death; that 'tis believed, And told for news with as much confidence, As if 'twere writ in Gallo-belgicus.[415]
POL. That's well, that's very well: now, Roscio, Follows my part; I must express a grief Not usual; not like a well-left heir For his dead father, or a lusty widow For her old husband, must I counterfeit: But in a deeper, a far deeper strain, Weep like a father for his only son.
Is not that hard to do, ha! Roscio?
ROS. O, no, my lord, Not for your skill; has not your lordship seen A player personate Hieronimo?[416]
POL. By th' mass, 'tis true, I have seen the knave paint grief In such a lively colour, that for false And acted passion he has drawn true tears From the spectators. Ladies in the boxes Kept time with sighs and tears to his sad accents, As he had truly been the man he seem'd.
Well, then, I'll ne'er despair: but tell me thou-- Thou that hast still been privy to my bosom, How will this project take?
ROS. Rarely, my lord, Even now, methinks, I see your lordship's house Haunted with suitors of the noblest rank, And my young lady, your supposed heir, Tir'd more with wooing than the Grecian queen[417]
In the long absence of her wandering lord.
There's not a ruinous nobility In all this kingdom, but conceives a hope Now to rebuild his fortunes on this match.
POL. Those are not they I look for: no, my nets Are spread for other game; the rich and greedy-- Those that have wealth enough, yet gape for more-- They are for me.
ROS. Others will come, my lord: All sorts of fish will press upon your nets; Then in your lordship's wisdom it must lie To cull the great ones, and reject the fry.
POL. Nay, fear not that; there's none shall have access To see my daughter, or to speak to her, But such as I approve, and aim to catch.
ROS. The jest will be, my lord, when you shall see, How your aspiring suitors will put on The face of greatness, and belie their fortunes, Consume themselves in show, wasting (like merchants) Their present wealth in rigging a fair ship For some ill-ventur'd voyage that undoes 'em.
Here comes a youth with letters from the court, Bought of some favourite, at such a price As will for ever sink him; yet, alas!
All's to no purpose, he must lose the prize.
POL. 'Twill feed me fat with sport, that it shall make, Besides the large adventures it brings home Unto my daughter. How now!
_Enter_ SERVANT.
SER. My lord, Count Virro is come to see you.
POL. Conduct him in. So, so, it takes already!
See, Roscio, see, this is the very man My project aim'd at, the rich count that knows No end of his large wealth, yet gapes for more.
There was no other loadstone could attract His iron heart; for could beauty have mov'd him, Nature has been no niggard to my girl.
But I must to my grief; here comes the count.
_Enter_ COUNT VIRRO.
VIR. Is your lord asleep?
ROS. No, sir, I think not.
My lord, Count Virro!
VIR. How do you, sir?
POL. I do entreat your lordship pardon me: Grief and some want of sleep have made me at This time unmannerly, not fit to entertain Guests of your worth.
VIR. Alas, sir! I know your grief.
ROS. 'Twas that that fetch'd you hither. [_Aside._
VIR. Y' have lost a worthy and a hopeful son; But heaven, that always gives, will sometimes take, And that the best. There is no balsam left us To cure such wounds as these but patience; There is no disputing with the acts of heaven; But, if there were, in what could you accuse Those powers that else have been so liberal to you, And left you yet one comfort in your age, A fair and virtuous daughter.
ROS. Now it begins. [_Aside._
VIR. Your blood is not extinct, nor your age childless: From that fair branch that's left may come much fruit To glad posterity: think on that, my lord.
POL. Nay, heaven forbid I should repine, At what the justice of those powers ordain; It has pleased them to confine my care Only to one; and to see her well bestow'd Is all the comfort that I now must look for; But if it had pleas'd heaven that my son-- Ah, my Eugenio! [_He weeps._
VIR. Alas, good gentleman!
ROS. 'Fore heaven, he does it rarely! [_Aside._
VIR. But, sir, remember yourself, remember your daughter; let not your grief for the dead make you forget the living, whose hopes and fortunes depend upon your safety.
POL. O my good lord, you never had a son.
ROS. Unless they were bastards, and for them no doubt but he has done as other lords do. [_Aside._
POL. And therefore cannot tell what 'tis to lose A son, a good son, and an only son.
VIR. I would, my lord, I could as well redress, As I can take compassion of your grief: You should soon find an ease.
POL. Pray pardon me, my lord, If I forget myself toward you at this time; If it please you to visit my house ofter, You shall be welcome.
VIR. You would fain sleep, my lord, I'll take my leave.
Heaven send you comfort! I shall make bold shortly To visit you.
POL. You shall be wondrous welcome.
Wait on my lord, out there. [_To Attend. Exit_ VIRRO.
So, now he's gone: how thinkest thou, Roscio, Will not this gudgeon bite?
ROS. No doubt, my lord, So fair a bait would catch a cunning fish.
POL. And such a one is he; he ever lov'd The beauty of my girl, but that's not it Can draw the earthbred thoughts of his gross soul.
Gold is the god of his idolatry, With hope of which I'll feed him, till at length I make him fasten, and, Ixion-like, For his lov'd Juno grasp an empty cloud.
ROS. How stands my young lady affected to him?
POL. There's all the difficulty; we must win her to love him. I doubt the peevish girl will think him too old; he's well near fifty. In this business I must leave somewhat to thy wit and care: praise him beyond all measure.
ROS. Your lordship ever found me trusty.
POL. If thou effect it, I will make thee happy. [_Exeunt._
_Enter_ PHILOCLES, CLERIMONT.
PHIL. Eugenio's sister, then, is the rich heir By his decease?
CLER. Yes, and the fair one too: She needs no gloss that fortune can set on her; Her beauty of itself were prize enough To make a king turn beggar for.