Playes written by the thrice noble, illustrious and excellent princess, the Lady Marchioness of Newcastle.

Scene 18.

Enter Sir Thomas Father Love alone, and for a time walkes as in a musing or thinking, with his eyes cast on the ground, then speaks.

FAther Love.

Multitudes of Melancholy thoughts croud in my brain, And run to pull down Reason from his Throne; Fury as Captain leads the way, Patience and Hope is trod upon: O these distracted thoughts burrie my Soul about, Seeking a place to get a passage out.

But all the Ports are stopp'd. O Cursed Death, for to prolong a life that is so weary of its Mansion.

Enter Mr. Comfort Sir Thomas Father Loves friend.

Friend.

Sir, will you give order for your Daughters Funeral, and direct how you will have her interred?

Father Love.

How say you? why I will have you rip my body open, and make it as a Coffin to lay her in, then heave us gently on sighs fetcht deep, and lay us on a Herse of sorrowful groans, then cover us with a Dark, Black, Pitchy, Spungy Cloud, made of thick Vapour, drawn from bleeding hearts; from whence may tears of showers run powring down, making a Sea to drown remembrance in.

But O remembrance, is a fury grown, Torments my Soul, now she is gone.

Friend.

Sir, where there is no remedy, you must have patience.

Father Love.

Patience, out upon her, she is an Idle lazy Gossip, and keep; none Company but Cowards and Fools, and slothful conscientious Persons; neither is she usefull but for indifferent imployments: for what is of extraordi∣nary worth, Patience doth but disgrace it, not set it forth; for that which is transcendent and Supreme, Patience cannot reach. Wherefore give me Fury, for what it cannot raise to Heaven, it throwes it straight to Hell; were you ne∣ver there?

Friend.

No, nor I hope shall never come there.

Father Love.

Why Sir, I was there all the last Night, and there I was tor∣tured for chiding my Daughter two or three times whilst she lived; once because she went in the Sun without her Mask; another time because her Gloves were in her Pocket, when they should have been on her Hands; and another time, because she slep'd when she should have studied, and then I remember she wept. O! O! those pretious tears! Devil that I was to grieve her sweet Nature, harmless Thoughts, and Innocent Soul. O how I hate my self, for being so unnaturally kind. O kill me, and rid be of my painful life.

Friend.

He is much distracted, Heaven cure him.

Exeunt.