TYR. O shame of men, a soldier and so fearful? 2D SOL. 'Tis out of my element to be in a church, sir. Give me the open field, and turn me loose, sir. TYR. True, thou then hast room enough to run away! Take thou the axe from him. 1ST SOL. I beseech your grace, 'Twill come to a worse hand. You'll find us all Of one mind for the church, I can assure you, sir. TYR. Nor thou? 3D SOL. I love not to disquiet ghosts Of any people living. TYR. O slaves of one opinion: give me't from thee, Thou man made out of fear. 2D SOL. By my faith, I'm glad I'm rid on't-- I that was ne'er before in [a] cathedral, And have the battering of a lady's tomb, Lies hard upon my conscience at first coming; I should get much by that; it shall be a warning to me, I'll ne'er come here again. TYR. No? wilt not yield? [_Strikes at the tomb._ Art thou so loth to part from her? 1ST SOL. What means he? Has he no feeling with him? By this light, if I be not afraid to stay any longer! very fear will go nigh to turn me of some religion or other, and so make me forfeit my lieutenantship. TYR. O, have we got the mastery? Help, you vassals! Freeze you in idleness, and can see us sweat? 2D SOL. We sweat with fear, as much as work can make us. TYR. Remove the stone, that I may see my mistress! Set to your hands, you villains, and that nimbly, Or the same axe shall make you all fly open! ALL. O good my lord! TYR. I must not be delay'd. 1ST SOL. This is ten thousand times worse than entering on a breach: 'Tis the first stone that ever I took off From any lady; marry, I have brought 'em many: Fair diamonds, sapphires, rubies. [_They raise the stone._ TYR. O bless'd object! I never shall be weary to behold thee; I could eternally stand thus and see thee. Why, 'tis not possible, death should look so fair. Life is not more illustrious[470], when health smiles on't; She's only pale, the colour of the court, And most attractive; mistresses most strive for't; And their lascivious servants most affect it. Lay to your hands again! ALL. My lord? TYR. Take up her body! 1ST SOL. How, my lord? TYR. Her body. 1ST SOL. She's dead, my lord. TYR. True, if she were alive, Such slaves as you should not come near to touch her: Do't, and with all best reverence place her here. 1ST SOL. Not only, sir, with reverence, but with fear; You shall have more than your own asking once. I am afraid of nothing, but she'll rise At the first jog, and save us all a labour. 2D SOL. Then we were best take her up, and never touch her. 1ST SOL. How can that be? does fear make thee mad? I've took up many a woman in my days, But never with less pleasure, I protest.