_Char._ Not for her fault, but mine Sir, _Zenocia_ suffers:
The sin I made, when I sought to rase down
_Arnoldo's_ love, built on a Rock of truth,
Now to the height is punish'd. I profess,
Had he no birth, nor parts, the present sorrow
He now expresses for her, does deserve her
Above all Kings, though such had been his rivals.

_Clod._ All ancient stories, of the love of Husbands
To vertuous Wives, be now no more remembred.

_Char._ The tales of _Turtles_, ever be forgotten,
Or, for his sake believ'd.

_Man._ I have heard, there has been
Between some married pairs, such sympathy,
That th' Husband has felt really the throws
His Wife then teeming suffers, this true grief
Confirms, 'tis not impossible.

_Clod._ We shall find
Fit time for this hereafter; let's use now
All possible means to help her.

_Man._ Care, nor cost,
Nor what Physicians can do, shall be wanting;
Make use of any means or men.

_Char._ You are noble.
[_Exeunt_ Man. Clod, _and_ Char.

_Sulp._ Ten Colledges of Doctors shall not save her.
Her fate is in your hand.

_Hip._ Can I restore her?

_Sulp._ If you command my Art.

_Hip._ I'le dye my self first.
And yet I'le go visit her, and see
This miracle of sorrow in _Arnoldo_:
And 'twere for me, I should change places with her,
And dye most happy, such a lovers tears
Were a rich monument, but too good for her,
Whose misery I glory in: come _Sulpitia_,
You shall along with me, good _Zabulon_
Be not far off.

_Zab._ I will attend you Madam. [_Exeunt._

_Enter_ Duarte, _and a_ Servant.

_Ser._ I have serv'd you from my youth, and ever
You have found me faithful: that you live's a treasure
I'le lock up here; nor shall it be let forth,
But when you give me warrant.

_Dua._ I rely
Upon thy faith; nay, no more protestations,
Too many of them will call that in question,
Which now I doubt not: she is there?

_Ser._ Alone too,
But take it on my life, your entertainment,
Appearing as you are, will be but course,
For the displeasure I shall undergo
I am prepar'd.

_Dua._ Leave me, I'le stand the hazard. [_Exit_ Servant.
The silence that's observ'd, her close retirements,
No visitants admitted, not the day;
These sable colours, all signs of true sorrow,
Or hers is deeply counterfeit. I'le look nearer,
Manners give leave--she sits upon the ground;
By heaven she weeps; my picture in her hand too;
She kisses it and weeps again.

_Enter_ Guiomar.