_Enter Don Pedro, reading a Letter, & Manuell_.
_Man_. Dear sir, let me have power to recall Your graver thoughts out of this violent storme Of passion that thus oerwhelmes your mind. Remember what you are, and with what strength, What more then manly strength, you have outworne Dangers of Battaile, when your warlike lookes Have outfac'd horrour.
_Pedro_. Oh, my son, my son, Horrour it selfe upon the wings of Death, Stretcht to the uttermost expansion Over the wounded body of an Army, Could never carry an aspect like this, This murthering spectacle, this field of paper Stucke all with Basiliskes eyes. Read but this word, 'The ravisht _Eleonora_!'--does't not seeme Like a full cloud of bloud ready to burst And fall upon our heads?
_Man_. Indeed you take too deepe a sence of it.
_Pedro_. What? when I see this meteor hanging ore it? This prodigy in figure of a man, Clad all in flames, with an Inscription Blazing on's head, 'Henrico the Ravisher!'
_Pedro_. In battailes I have lost, and seene the falls Of many a right good soldier; but they fell Like blessed grayne that shott up into honour. But in this leud exploit I lose a son And thou a brother, my _Emanuell_, And our whole house the glory of her name: Her beauteous name that never was distayned, Is by this beastly fact made odious.
_Man_. I pray, sir, be your selfe and let your Judgement Entertaine reason: From whom came this Letter?
_Pedro_. From the sad plaintiffe, _Eleonora_.
_Man_. Good; And by the common poast: you every weeke Receiving letters from your noble frendes Yet none of their papers can tell any such tidings.
_Man_. Why is her father silent? has she no kindred, No frend, no gentleman of note, no servant Whom she may trust to bring by word of mouth Her dismall story.
_Pedro_. No, perhaps she would not Text up his name in proclamations.
_Man_. Some villaine hath filld up a Cup of poyson T'infect the whole house of the _Guzman_ family; And you are greedyest first to take it downe.
_Man_. Were you a stranger Armd in the middle of a great Battalion And thus should dare to taxe him, I would wave My weapon ore my head to waft you forth To single combatt: if you would not come, Had I as many lives as I have hayres,[28] I'de shoot 'em all away to force my passage Through such an hoast untill I met the Traytour To my dear brother.--Pray, doe not thinke so, sir.