TYR. O, the moon rises! what reflection Is thrown about this sanctified building, E'en in a twinkling! How the monuments glister, As if death's palaces were all massy silver, And scorn'd the name of marble! Art thou cold? I have no faith in't yet: I believe none. Madam! 'tis I, sweet lady: prythee, speak, 'Tis thy love calls on thee--thy king, thy servant. No! not a word? all prisoners to pale silence! I'll prove a kiss. 2D SOL. Here's fine chill venery; 'Twould make a pander's heels ache, I'll be sworn; All my teeth chatter in my head to see't. [_Aside._ TYR. Thou'rt cold indeed, beshrew thee for't. Unkind to thine own blood, hard-hearted lady! What injury hast thou offer'd to the youth And pleasure of thy days? refuse the court, And steal to this hard lodging! was that wisdom? O, I could chide thee with mine eye brimful, And weep out my forgiveness, when I've done! Nothing hurt thee but want of woman's counsel; Hadst thou but ask'd th' opinion of most ladies, Thou'dst never come to this! they would have told thee, How dear a treasure life and youth had been; 'Tis that they fear to lose: the very name Can make more gaudy tremblers in a minute, Than heaven, or sin, or hell--these are last thought on. And where gott'st thou such boldness from the rest Of all thy timorous sex, to do a deed here Upon thyself would plunge the world's best soldier And make him twice bethink him and again. And yet give over? Since thy life has left me, I'll clasp the body for the spirit that dwelt in it, And love the house still for the mistress' sake. Thou art mine now, spite of destruction And Govianus; and I will possess thee. I once read of a Herod, whose affection Pursued a virgin's love, as I did thine: Who, for the hate she owed him, kill'd herself, As thou too rashly didst without all pity, Yet he preserv'd her body dead in honey, And kept her long after her funeral; But I'll unlock the treasure-house of art With keys of gold, and bestow all on thee. Here, slaves! receive her humbly from our arms. Upon your knees, you villains! all's too little, If you should sweep the pavement with your lips. 1ST SOL. What strange brooms he invents! [_Aside._ TYR. So! reverently! Bear her before us gently to the palace. Place you the stone again, where first we found it. [_Exeunt. Manet_ 1ST SOLDIER. 1ST SOL. Must this on now to deceive all comers, And cover emptiness? 'tis, for all the world, Like a great city-pie brought to a table, Where there be many hands that lay about. The lid's shut close, when all the meat's pick'd out, Yet stands to make a show, and cosen people. [_Exit._ SCENE IV.