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A prince of power.
MIRA. Sir, are not you my father?
PRO. Thy mother was a piece of virtue, and
MIRA. O, the heavens!
What foul play had we, that we came from thence;
PRO. Both, both, my girl:
By foul play, as thou say'st, were we heaved thence, But blessedly holp hither.
MIRA. O, my heart bleeds
To think o' the teen that I have turn'd you to,
I pray thee, mark me,—that a brother should
Without a parallel those being all my study,
And to my state grew stranger, being transported,
MIRA, Sir, most heedfully.
PRO. Being once perfected how to grant suits,
How to deny them; whom to advance, and whom
To thrash for over-topping; new created
The creatures that were mine; I say, or changed them, Or else new form'd them; having both the key
Of officer and office, set all heart i' the state
To what tune pleased his ear; that now he was
The ivy, which had hid my princely trunk
And suck'd my verdure out on't-Thou attend'st not: I pray thee, mark me.
MIRA. O, good sir, I do.
PRO. I thus neglecting worldly ends, all dedicate
O'erprized all popular rate, in my false brother
As my trust was; which had, indeed, no limit,
A confidence sans bound. He being thus lorded,
To credit his own lie,-he did believe
MIRA. Your tale, sir, would cure deafness.
PRO. To have no screen between this part he play'd, And him he play'd it for, he needs will be Absolute Milan. Me, poor man! my library Was dukedom large enough. Of temporal royalties He thinks me now incapable: confederates
(So dry he was for sway) with the king of Naples,
The dukedom, yet unbow'd (alas! poor Milan !)
MIRA. O, the heavens!
PRO. Mark his condition, and the event; then tell me, If this might be a brother.
MIRA. I should sin
To think but nobly of my grandmother.
Good wombs have borne bad sons.
PRO. Now the condition:
This king of Naples, being an enemy
To me inveterate, hearkens my brother's suit;
Of nomage, and I know not how much tribute,—
Fated to the purpose, did Antonio open
The gates of Milan; and, i' the dead of darkness,
MIRA. Alack, for pity!
I, not rememb'ring how I cried out then,
Will cry it o'er again: it is a hint
That wrings mine eyes to 't.
PRO. Hear a little farther,
And then I'll bring thee to the present business.
MIRA. Wherefore did they not
That hour destroy us?
PRO. Well demanded, wench;
My tale provokes that question. Dear, they durst not (So dear the love my people bore me) nor set
A mark so bloody on the business; but
With colors fairer painted their foul ends.
Bore us some leagues to sea; where they prepared
MIRA. Alack! what trouble
Was I then to you!
PRO. Oh! a cherubim
Thou wast, that did preserve me! Thou didst smile,
When I have deck'd the sea with drops full salt;
Against what should ensue.
MIRA. HOW came we ashore?
PRO. By Providence divine.
Some food we had, and some fresh water, that
Out of his charity, (who being then appointed
Rich garments, linens, stuffs, and necessaries,
Which since have steaded much; so, of his gentleness,
I prized above my dukedom.
MIRA. Would I might
But ever see that man!
PRO. Now I arise :
Sit still, and hear the last of our sea-sorrow.
MIRA. Heavens thank you for't; And now, I pray you, sir,
(For still 'tis beating in my mind,) your reason
For raising this sea-storm?
PRO. Know thus far forth.
By accident most strange, bountiful fortune,
A most auspicious star; whose influence
Will ever after droop. Here cease more questions,
[The following poem, by one of the best of our Lyrists, is full of feeling and energy. It is supposed to allude to the fatal encounter in which one of Maine's most gifted sons fell a victim to that worst relic of barbarism, ironically termed the code of honor.]
THE mother sat beside her fire,
Well trimmed it was, and bright,
While loudly moaned the forest-pines,
Amid that wintry night.
She heard them not, those wind-swept pines,
For o'er a scroll she hung,
That bore her husband's voice of love,
As when that love was young.
And thrice her son, beside her knee,
And thrice her lisping daughter spoke,
"O, little daughter, many a kiss
And blessed prayers are thine.
"Thou hast his high and arching brow,
And be the purpose of thy soul,
Thy sun-bright course the same."
Then as she drew them to her arms,
She took the baby from its rest,
"Thou ne'er hast seen thy sire," she said,
"Yes, he'll be proud of thee, my dove,
I know what eye of blue he loves,
"Where is my father gone, mamma?
"He's in the lofty Congress-hall,
And help to frame those righteous laws,
"But ere the earliest violets bloom,
You in his arms shall be,
So, go to rest, my children dear,
And pray for him and me."
The snow-flakes reared their drifted mound,
But naught, amid that peaceful home,
For lightly as an angel's dream,
Another eve,—another scroll!
The duel? and the dead? How dark