Methinks, expresseth more than if she spake.
Her melancholy seems to be fortified
With a strange disdain.
’Tis so; and this restraint,
Like English mastives that grow fierce with tying,
Makes her too passionately apprehend
Those pleasures she is kept from.
Curse upon her!
I will no longer study in the book
Of another’s heart. Inform her what I told you.
All comfort to your grace!
I will have none.
Pray thee, why dost thou wrap thy poison’d pills
In gold and sugar?
Your elder brother, the Lord Ferdinand,
Is come to visit you, and sends you word,
’Cause once he rashly made a solemn vow
Never to see you more, he comes i’ th’ night;
And prays you gently neither torch nor taper
Shine in your chamber. He will kiss your hand,
And reconcile himself; but for his vow
He dares not see you.
At his pleasure.—
Take hence the lights.—He’s come.
Where are you?
Here, sir.
This darkness suits you well.
I would ask you pardon.
You have it;
For I account it the honorabl’st revenge,
Where I may kill, to pardon.—Where are your cubs?
Whom?
Call them your children;
For though our national law distinguish bastards
From true legitimate issue, compassionate nature
Makes them all equal.
Do you visit me for this?
You violate a sacrament o’ th’ church
Shall make you howl in hell for’t.
It had been well,
Could you have liv’d thus always; for, indeed,
You were too much i’ th’ light:—but no more;
I come to seal my peace with you. Here’s a hand
Gives her a dead man’s hand.
To which you have vow’d much love; the ring upon’t
You gave.
I affectionately kiss it.
Pray, do, and bury the print of it in your heart.
I will leave this ring with you for a love-token;
And the hand as sure as the ring; and do not doubt
But you shall have the heart too. When you need a friend,
Send it to him that ow’d it; you shall see
Whether he can aid you.
You are very cold:
I fear you are not well after your travel.—
Ha! lights!—O, horrible!
Let her have lights enough.
What witchcraft doth he practise, that he hath left
A dead man’s hand here?
Look you, here’s the piece from which ’twas ta’en.
He doth present you this sad spectacle,
That, now you know directly they are dead,
Hereafter you may wisely cease to grieve
For that which cannot be recovered.
There is not between heaven and earth one wish
I stay for after this. It wastes me more
Than were’t my picture, fashion’d out of wax,
Stuck with a magical needle, and then buried
In some foul dunghill; and yon’s an excellent property
For a tyrant, which I would account mercy.
What’s that?
If they would bind me to that lifeless trunk,
And let me freeze to death.
Come, you must live.
That’s the greatest torture souls feel in hell,
In hell, that they must live, and cannot die.
Portia,88 I’ll new kindle thy coals again,
And revive the rare and almost dead example
Of a loving wife.
O, fie! despair? Remember
You are a Christian.
The church enjoins fasting:
I’ll starve myself to death.
Leave this vain sorrow.
Things being at the worst begin to mend: the bee
When he hath shot his sting into your hand,
May then play with your eyelid.
Good comfortable fellow,
Persuade a wretch that’s broke upon the wheel
To have all his bones new set; entreat him live
To be executed again. Who must despatch me?
I account this world a tedious theatre,
For I do play a part in’t ’gainst my will.
Come, be of comfort; I will save your life.
Indeed, I have not leisure to tend so small a business.
Now, by my life, I pity you.
Thou art a fool, then,
To waste thy pity on a thing so wretched
As cannot pity itself. I am full of daggers.
Puff, let me blow these vipers from me.
What are you?
One that wishes you long life.
I would thou wert hang’d for the horrible curse
Thou hast given me: I shall shortly grow one
Of the miracles of pity. I’ll go pray;—
No, I’ll go curse.
O, fie!
I could curse the stars.
O, fearful!
And those three smiling seasons of the year
Into a Russian winter; nay, the world
To its first chaos.
Look you, the stars shine still.
O, but you must
Remember, my curse hath a great way to go.—
Plagues, that make lanes through largest families,
Consume them!—
Fie, lady!
Let them, like tyrants,
Never be remembered but for the ill they have done;
Let all the zealous prayers of mortified
Churchmen forget them!—
O, uncharitable!
Let heaven a little while cease crowning martyrs,
To punish them!—
Go, howl them this, and say, I long to bleed:
It is some mercy when men kill with speed.
Excellent, as I would wish; she’s plagu’d in art.89
These presentations are but fram’d in wax
By the curious master in that quality,90
Vincentio Lauriola, and she takes them
For true substantial bodies.
Why do you do this?
To bring her to despair.
Faith, end here,
And go no farther in your cruelty:
Send her a penitential garment to put on
Next to her delicate skin, and furnish her
With beads and prayer-books.
Damn her! that body of hers.
While that my blood run pure in’t, was more worth
Than that which thou wouldst comfort, call’d a soul.
I will send her masques of common courtesans,
Have her meat serv’d up by bawds and ruffians,
And, ’cause she’ll needs be mad, I am resolv’d
To move
