[pg 8]

 Fab. Heaven knows, I wish your peace; but am to learn,

   What grief more fresh than my young lord's decease,

   A sorrow but of three days past, can move you.

 Count. O bitter memory! gone, gone for ever!

   The pillar of my house, my only son!

 Fab. 'Twas terrible indeed.

 Count. Ay, was it not?

   And then the manner of it! think on that!

   Disease, that robb'd me of two infant sons,

   Approaching slow, bade me prepare to lose them;

   I saw my lilies drooping; and, accustom'd

   To see them dying, bore to see them dead:

   But, Oh my Edmund!—Thou remember'st, Fabian,

   How blithe he went to seek the forest's sport!

 Fab. 'Would I could not remember!

 Count. That cursed barb,

   (My fatal gift) that dash'd him down the cliff,

   Seem'd proud of his gay burden.—Breathless, mangled,

   They bore him back to me. Fond man! I hoped

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