the Dutchesse of Malfy.
Bos.
Looke you: here's the peece, from which 'twas ta'ne;
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.
Duch.
There is not betweene heaven, and earth one wish
I stay for after this: it wastes me more,
Then were't my picture, fashion'd out of wax,
Stucke with a magicall needle, and then buried
In some fowle dung-hill: and yond's an excellent property
For a tyrant, which I would account mercy,
Bos.
What's that?
Dutch.
If they would bind me to that liveles truncke,
And let me freeze to death.
Bos.
Come, you must live.
Dutch.
That's the greatest torture soules feele in hell,
In hell: that they must live, and cannot die:
Portia, I'll new kindle thy Coales againe,
And revive the rare, and almost dead example
Of a loving wife.
Bos.
O sye: despaire? remember
You are a Christian.
Dutch.
The Church enjoynes fasting:
I'll starve my selfe to death.
Bos.
Leave this vaine 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 eye-lyd.
Dutch.
Good comfortable fellow
Perswade a wretch that's broke upon the wheele
To have all his bones new set: entreate him live,
To be executed againe: who must dispatch me?
I account this world a tedious Theatre,
For I doe play a part in't 'gainst my will.
Bos.
Come, be of comfort, I will save your life.
Dutch.
Indeed I have not leysure to tend so small a busines.
Bos.
Now, by my life, I pitty you.
Dutch.
