Explicit Actus primus.

Actus 2.

SCENA PRIMA.

    Storme continewed.  Enter Palestra all well, as newly
    shipwreckd and escapt the fury of the seas.

Palestra.[71] Is this then the reward of Innocense,
Of goodness to our selfes, namely chast lyfe,
Pietye to our parents, love to all,
And above all our Christian zeale towardes heaven? 
But why shoold wee poore wretches thus contest
Against the powers above us, when even they
That are the best amongst us are servd badd? 
Alas, I never yet wrongd man or child,
Woman or babe; never supplanted frend
Or sought revendge upon an enemy. 
You see yet howe we suffer; howe shall they then
That false their faythes, that are of uncleane lyfe
And then not only sinne unto them selves
But tempt and persuade others? what shall I thinke
Becoms of my base guardian? though the waves
Have spared the guiltles, sure his putrid s[oule][72]
Cannot escape heavens justyce! wee poor wretches
Are punishe [sic] for his grosse impietyes,
They mov’d heavens wrathe, who stir’d the winds and waves
Stryvinge whose fury should destroy us fyrst. 
These boathe conspyringe in our ruinne, th’one
Beate us belowe the billowes whilst the other
Swallowed boathe shippe and goodes; [amongst] the rest
A[73] budget or portmantau which includes
All the bawdes wealth.  But that weare nothinge to mee
Though he had vowed and sworne to make mee his heyer;
The losse I so lament is a small caskett
Kept by him from my childhood, and packt up
Amongst his treasure; and that perishinge,
I forfett the longe expectation
Ever to knowe my parents, therefore wishe
With it I had i’th sea been buried.

    Enter Scribonia.

Scrib.  With perill of oft fallinge and the danger
Of second deathe, having new scapt the fyrst,
I have with feare and terror clim’d these rocks,
And these too past I feare to meete a thyrd. 
I spy no howse, no harbor, meete no creature
To point mee to some shelter; therefore heare
Must starve by famine or expire by could. 
O’th sea the whystlinge winds still threaten wreckes,
And flyinge nowe for refuge to the lande
Find nought save desolation.  Thoughe these three,
Three dreadfull deaths all spare mee, yeat a fowerth,
I cannot shoone [shun] in my Palestras losse,
More[74] deare to mee then all the world besides,
For the best blood of myne runns in her veynes,
This lyfe breath in her bosom.  Oh my Palestra!

Palestr.  Numnes and feare, hungar and sollitude, Besydes my casket, my Scribonia’s losse, All these at once afflict mee.

Scrib.  Notheinge mee More than Palestra’s deathe.  Ha, who’s that spake?  Suer twas som womans voyce! if my Palestra Only for her sake I coulde wishe to live.