The Tragedy of
Dutch.
Thou art a foole then,
To wast thy pitty on a thing so wretch'd
As cannot pitty it: I am full of daggers:
Puffe: let me blow these vipers from one.
What are you?
Ser.
One that wishes you long life.
Duch.
I would thou wert hang'd for the horrible curse
Thou hast given me: I shall shortly grow one
Of the miracles of pitty: I'll goe pray: No,
I'll goe curse:
Bos.
Oh fye:
Dutch.
I could curse the Starres.
Bos.
Oh fearefull:
Dutch.
And those three smyling seasons of the yeere
Into a Russian winter: nay the world
To its first Chaos.
Bos.
Looke you, the Starres shine still:
Dutch.
Oh, but you must remember, my curse hath a great way to goe:
Plagues, (that make lanes through largest families)
Consume them:
Bos.
Fye Lady:
Dutch.
Let them like tyrants
Never be remembred, but for the ill they have done:
Let all the zealous prayers of mortefied
Church-men forget them,
Bos.
O uncharitable:
Dutch.
Let heaven, a little while, cease crowning Martirs
To punish them: Goe, howle them this: and say I long to bleed
"It is some mercy, when men kill with speed. Exit.
Ferd.
Excellent; as I would wish: she's plagu'd in Art.
These presentations are but fram'd in wax.
By the curious Master in that Qualitie,
Vincentio Lauriola, and she takes them
For true substantiall Bodies.
Bos.
Why doe you doe this?
Ferd.
To bring her to despaire.
Bos.
'Faith, end here:
And
