Fredericke, Hatto, and Alfred_.

_Hat_. Good brother, heare some Musicke, twill delight you.

_Al_. Ile call the Actors, will you see a play?

_Fre_. Or, gracious father, see me runne the race
On a light footed horse, swifter then winde.

_Duke_. I pray forbeare.

_Al_. This moode will make you mad,
For melancholy ushers franticke thoughts.

_Hat_. It makes hot wreaking blood turne cold and drie,
And drithe and coldnesse are the signes of death.

_Duke_. You doe torment me.

_Fred_. Is it anything
That I have done, offends your grace?

_Hat_. Or comes this hidden anger from my fault?

_Alf_. Heres none but gladly would resigne his life
To doe you pleasure, so please you to command.

_Duke_. Ifaith you are too [_sic_] blame to vexe me thus.

_Hat_. Then grounds this sorrow on your brothers death?

_Fred_. Or rather on the glove I lately found.

_Duke_. A plague upon the glove, whats that to me?
Your prating makes me almost lunatike.
As you respect my welfare, leave me leave me.
The sooner you depart, the sooner _I_
Shall finde some meanes to cure my maladie.

_Fred_. Our best course is to be obedient.

[_Exeunt all but the Duke_.

_Duke_. Farewell.
Was ever slave besotted like to me!
That Kings have lov'd those that they never saw
Is nothing strange, since they have heard their praise;
Birds that by painted grapes have bin deceiv'd
Had yet some shadow to excuse their error;
_Pigmalion_ that did love an Ivory Nimph
Had an _Idea_ to delight his sence;
The youth that doted on _Minerva's_[177] picture
Had some contentment for his eye; [_soft Musique_.
But love, or rather an infernall hagge,
Envying _Saxons_ greatnes and his joyes,
Hath given me nothing but a trifling glove,
As if by the proportion of the case
Art had the power to know the jewels nature.
Or Nimph, or goddesse, woman, or faire devill,
If anything thou art, within my braine
Draw thine owne picture, let me see thy face:
To doate thus grossely, is a grosse disgrace. [_Musique within_.
I heare some Musique: O ye Deities,
Send you this heavenly consort[178] from the spheares
To recreate a love-perplexed heart?
The more it sounds, the more it refresheth.
I see no instruments, nor hands that play;
And my deare brothers, durst not be so bold.
'Tis some celestiall rapture of the minde,
No earthlie harmonic is of this kinde.
Now it doth cease: speake, who comes there?

_Enter Fredericke, Alfred, and Hatto_.