[Exeunt.

SCAENA 6.

Enter Leidenberch & Boy.

Boy.  Shall I help you to bed, Sir,
                      [Taper, pen & inke:  Table.

Leid.  No, my Boy, not yet.

Boy.  ’Tis late and I grow sleepie.

Leid.  Goe to bed then, For I must wryte, my Childe.

Boy.  I had rather watch, Sir, If you sitt up, for I know you will wake me.

Leid.  Indeed I will not; goe, I have much to doe; Prethee to bed; I will not waken thee.

Boy.  Pray, Sir, leave wryting till to morrow.

Leid.  Why, Boy?

Boy.  You slept but ill last night, and talkd in your sleep, too; Tumbled and tooke no rest.

Leid.  I ever doe soe.  Good Boy, to bed; my busines is of waight And must not be deferrd:  good night, sweet Boy.

Boy.  My father was not wont to be so kind To hug me and to kisse me soe.

Leid.  Why do’st thou weep?

Boy.  I cannot tell, but sure a tendernes,
Whether it be with your kind words unto me
Or what it is, has crept about my hart, Sir,
And such a sodaine heavynes withall, too.

Leid.—­Thou bringst fitt mourners for my funerall.

Boy.  But why do you weep, father?

Leid.  O, my Boy,
Thy teares are dew-drops, sweet as those on roses,
But mine the faint and yron sweatt of sorrow. 
Prethee, sweet Child, to bed; good rest dwell with thee,
And heaven returne a blessing:  that’s my good Boy. [Exit boy. 
—­How nature rises now and turnes me woman
When most I should be man!  Sweet hart, farewell,
Farewell for ever.  When we get us children
We then doe give our freedoms up to fortune
And loose that native courage we are borne to. 
To dye were nothing,—­simply to leave the light;
No more then going to our beds and sleeping;
But to leave all these dearnesses behind us,
These figures of our selves that we call blessings,
Is that which trobles.  Can man beget a thing
That shalbe deerer then himself unto him? 
—­Tush, Leidenberch:  thinck what thou art to doe;
Not to play Niobe weeping ore her Children,
Unles that Barnavelt appeere againe
And chide thy dull-cold nature.—­He is fast:  [Son abed. 
Sleepe on, sweet Child, the whilst thy wreatched father
Prepares him to the yron sleepe of death. 
Or is death fabled out but terrable
To fright us from it? or rather is there not
Some hid Hesperides, some blessed fruites
Moated about with death.  Thou soule of Cato,
And you brave Romaine speritts, famous more
For your true resolutions on yourselves
Then Conquest of the world, behold, and see me
An old man and a gowne man, with as much hast
And gladnes entertaine this steele that meetes me
As ever longing lover did his mistris. 
—­So, so; yet further; soe.