Pedro.  Oh, my son, my son,
Horrour it selfe upon the wings of Death,
Stretcht to the uttermost expansion
Over the wounded body of an Army,
Could never carry an aspect like this,
This murthering spectacle, this field of paper
Stucke all with Basiliskes eyes.  Read but this word,
’The ravisht Eleonora!’—­does’t not seeme
Like a full cloud of bloud ready to burst
And fall upon our heads?

Man.  Indeed you take too deepe a sence of it.

Pedro.  What? when I see this meteor hanging ore it? 
This prodigy in figure of a man,
Clad all in flames, with an Inscription
Blazing on’s head, ‘Henrico the Ravisher!’

Man.  Good sir, avoid this passion.

Pedro.  In battailes I have lost, and seene the falls
Of many a right good soldier; but they fell
Like blessed grayne that shott up into honour. 
But in this leud exploit I lose a son
And thou a brother, my Emanuell,
And our whole house the glory of her name: 
Her beauteous name that never was distayned,
Is by this beastly fact made odious.

Man.  I pray, sir, be your selfe and let your Judgement Entertaine reason:  From whom came this Letter?

Pedro.  From the sad plaintiffe, Eleonora.

Man.  Good;
And by the common poast:  you every weeke
Receiving letters from your noble frendes
Yet none of their papers can tell any such tidings.

Pedro.  All this may be too, sir.

Man.  Why is her father silent? has she no kindred,
No frend, no gentleman of note, no servant
Whom she may trust to bring by word of mouth
Her dismall story.

Pedro.  No, perhaps she would not Text up his name in proclamations.

Man.  Some villaine hath filld up a Cup of poyson T’infect the whole house of the Guzman family; And you are greedyest first to take it downe.

Pedro.  That villaine is thy brother.

Man.  Were you a stranger
Armd in the middle of a great Battalion
And thus should dare to taxe him, I would wave
My weapon ore my head to waft you forth
To single combatt:  if you would not come,
Had I as many lives as I have hayres,[28]
I’de shoot ’em all away to force my passage
Through such an hoast untill I met the Traytour
To my dear brother.—­Pray, doe not thinke so, sir.

Pedro.  Not? when it shall be said one of our name
(Oh heaven could I but say he were not my son!)
Was so dishonorable,
So sacrilegious to defile a Temple
Of such a beauty & goodnes as she was!

Man.  As beauteous is my brother in his soule As she can be.

Pedro.  Why dost thou take his part so?