TYR. Death nor the marble prison my love sleeps in, Shall keep her body lock'd up from mine arms, I must not be so cosen'd; though her life Was like a widow's state, made o'er in policy To defeat me and my too confident heart; 'Twas a most cruel wisdom to herself, As much to me that lov'd her. What, return'd? _Enter_ 1ST SOLDIER. 1ST SOL. There be the keys, my lord. TYR. I thank thy speed; Here comes the rest full-furnish'd. Follow me, And wealth shall follow you. _Enter_ 2D _and_ 3D SOLDIERS. 1ST SOL. Wealth! by this light, We go to rob a church; I hold my life The money will ne'er thrive; that's a sure saw: What's got from grace, is ever spent in law. 2D SOL. What strange fits grow upon him here a-late! His soul has got a very dreadful leader. What should he make in the cathedral now, The hour so deep in night? all his intents Are contrary to man in spirit or blood. He, waxes heavy in his noble mind; His moods are such they cannot bear the weight, Nor will not long, if there be truth in whispers? The honourable father of the state, Noble Helvetius, all the lords agree By some close policy shortly to set free. [_Exeunt._ SCENE III. _Enter the_ TYRANT [_and_ SOLDIERS] _at a farther door,_ _which opened, brings them to the tomb, where the_ _lady lies buried. The tomb here discovered,_ _richly set forth_. TYR. Softly, softly! Let's give this place the peace that it requires; The vaults e'en chide our steps with murmuring sounds, For making bold so late: it must be done. 1ST SOL. I fear nothing but the whorish ghost of a quean I kept once; she swore she would so haunt me, I should never pray in quiet for her, and I have kept myself from church these fifteen years to prevent her. TYR. The monument woos me: I must run and kiss it. Now trust me, if the tears do not e'en stand Upon the marble: what slow springs have I! 'Twas weeping to itself before I came; How pity strikes e'en through insensible things, And makes them shame our dulness. Thou house of silence and the calms of rest, After tempestuous life, I claim of thee A mistress, one of the most beauteous sleepers That ever lay so cold, not yet due to thee By natural death, but cruelly forc'd hither, Many a year before the world could spare her! We miss her amongst the glories of our court, When they be number'd up. All thy still strength, Thou grey-ey'd monument, shall not keep her from us! Strike, villain! though the echo rail us all Into ridiculous deafness; pierce the jaws Of this cold ponderous creature. 2D SOL. Sir! TYR. Why strik'st thou not? 2D SOL. I shall not hold the axe fast, I'm afraid, sir.