His promises were, as he then was, mighty; The clergy ill example. Grif. Noble madam, Men's evil manners live in brass; their virtues We write in water. May it please your highness To hear me speak his good now? Kath. I were malicious else. Grif. Yes, good Griffith; This cardinal, Though from an humble stock, undoubtedly Whom I most hated living, thou hast made me, Now in his ashes honour: Peace be with him!- Sad and solemn musick. Grif. She is asleep: Good wench, let's sit down quiet, For fear we wake her;-Softly, gentle Patience. The Vision. Enter, solemnly tripping one after another, six Personages, clad in white robes, wearing on their heads garlands of bays, and golden vizards on their faces; branches of bays, or palm, in their hands. They first congee unto her, then dance; and, at certain changes, the first two hold a spare garland over her head; at which, the other four make reverend court'sies; then the two, that held the garland, deliver the same to the other next two, who observe the same order in their changes, and holding the garland over her head: which done, they deliver the same garland to the last two, who likewise observe the same order: at which, (as it were by inspiration,) she makes in her sleep signs of rejoicing, and holdeth up her hands to heaven: and so in their dancing they vanish, carrying the garland with them. The musick continues. Kath. Spirits of peace, where are ye? Are ye all gone? And leave me here in wretchedness behind ye? Kath. It is not you I call for: Saw ye none enter, since I slept? Grif. None, madam. Kath. No? Saw you not, even now, a blessed troop Invite me to a banquet; whose bright faces Cast thousand beams upon me, like the sun? And brought me garlands, Griffith, which I feel Assuredly. Grif. I am most joyful, madam, such good dreams Possess your fancy. Kath. Bid the musick leave, They are harsh and heavy to me. [Musick ceases. Pat. Do you note, How much her grace is alter'd on the sudden? How long her face is drawn? How pale she looks, And of an earthly cold? Mark you her eyes? Grif. She is going, wench; pray, pray. Pat. Heaven comfort her! Enter a Messenger. Mess. An't like your grace, Kath. You are a saucy fellow: Deserve we no more reverence? Mess. I humbly do entreat your highness' pardon; Let me ne'er see again. [Exeunt GRIFFITH and Messenger. |