Tho.  Yes, since then
A iust mistrust that you would crosse their match
Causd them last night privatly to steale hence
With an intention to have reacht the house
Where Bonvills mother lives; but see the fates
How they dispose of men! crossing the River
That runns beneath your orchard, and ith darke,
Their headstrong horses missing the ford overthrew them
And, which I cannot without true griefe utter,
There drownd them both. 
Was it not soe, Grimes?

Grimes.  Tis too sad a truth; and I,
After all meanes to save their life was past,
Lookd to my owne and got the shore:  their bodies
I feare the violence of the tide has carried
Into the Sea by this time.

Lady.  Enough, good friend; no more. 
Had a rude Scythian, ignorant of teares,
Unlesse the wind enforcd them from his eyes,
Heard this relation, sure he would have wept;
And yet I cannot.  I have lost all sense
Of pitty with my womanhood, and now
That once essentiall Mistress of my soule,
Warme charity, no more inflames my brest
Than does the glowewormes ineffectual fire
The ha[n]d that touches it.  Good sir, desist
The agravation of your sad report; [Weepe
Ive to much greife already.

Tho.  It becomes you: 
You do appeare more glorious in these t[ears]
Then the red morne when she adornes her cheeks
With Nabathean pearls:  in such a posture
Stand Phaetons sisters when they doe distill
Their much prisd amber.  Madam, but resume
Your banishd reason to you, and consider
How many Iliads of preposterous mischeife
From your intemperate breach of faith to me
Fetch their loathed essence; thinke but on the love,
The holy love I bore you, that we two
—­Had you bin constant—­might have taught the wor[ld]
Affections primitive purenes; when, from
Your abrogation of it, Bonvills death,
Your daughter[’s] losse have luc[k]lessly insu’d. 
The streame that, like a Crocodile, did weepe
Ore them whom with an over ravenous kisse
Its moyst lips stifled, will record your fault
In watery characters as lastingly
As iff twere cut in marble.  Heaven, forgive you;
Ile pray for you; repent.

[Exeunt Thorowgood and Grimes.

Grimes.  O, my deare Master!

Lady.  Repent! should I but spend
The weakest accent of my breath in sighes
Or vaine compunction, I should feare I sinnd
Against my will, then which I doe confes
Noe other diety.  Passions[120] doe surround
My intellectual powers; only my heart,
Like to a Rocky Island, does advance
Above the foming violence of the waves
Its unmovd head, bids me my fate outdare. 
Ills sure prevention is a swift despaire.

[Exit.

([SCENE] 2.)

Enter Alexander and Young Marlowe.