SCENE II.—A Room in Frankford’s House.
Reading edition
Enter Cranwell, Frankford, and Nicholas.
Cranwell.
Why do you search each room about your house,
Now that you have despatched your wife away?
Frankford.
O sir, to see that nothing may be left
That ever was my wife’s. I loved her dearly,
And when I do but think of her unkindness,
My thoughts are all in hell; to avoid which torment,
I would not have a bodkin or a cuff,
Nor any thing that ever was called hers,
Left me, by which I might remember her.
Seek round about.
Nicholas.
’Sblood, master! here’s her lute flung in a corner.
Frankford.
Her lute! O God! upon this instrument
Her fingers have run quick division,
Sweeter than that which now divides our hearts.
These frets have made me pleasant, that have now
Frets of my heart-strings made. O Master Cranwell,
Oft hath she made this melancholy wood,
Now mute and dumb for her disastrous chance,
Speak sweetly many a note, sound many a strain
To her own ravishing voice, which being well strung,
What pleasant strange airs have they jointly rung!
Post with it after her. Now nothing’s left;
Of her and hers, I am at once bereft.
Nicholas.
I’ll ride and overtake her; do my message,
And come back again. [Exit.
Cranwell.
Mean time, sir, if you please,
I’ll to Sir Francis Acton, and inform him
Of what hath passed betwixt you and his sister.
Frankford.
Do as you please. How ill am I bested,
To be a widower ere my wife be dead!
[Exeunt.