Scoen. VI.
Enter King, Petruccio.
King.
How died the Boy?
Petr.
Gonzago Sir, your Son?
King.
My Son, my Son? you urge the name of Son
To work remorse within me, when I ask
How died that Bastard Boy; no Son of mine.
Petr.
His last words that he spake to me, were these;
Go, tell the King my Father, that his frown
Hath pierc'd my heart: tell him, if all his Land
Be peopled with obedient hearts like mine,
He needs no lawes to second his displeasure,
To make a general Depopulation:
But that he may not lose so much, I pray
That in my Death his misse-plac'd anger die,
And that his wrath have double force 'gainst those
That to his Person and his Laws are Foes.
King.
Did he say so?
Petr.
And then, as if the Spirit of Prayer
Had onely been habitual in his soul,
He did implore Heaven's goodness to come down,
Lifting him hence to shine upon your Crown.
King.
This Boy yet might be mine, though Sforza might have wrong'd me by the By.
Petr.
This done, he pray'd me leave the Roome. I wept: In sooth I could-not chuse.