TYR. The fool, belike, Makes his choice carefully, for so we charg'd him, To fit our close deeds with some private hand. It is no shame for thee, most silent mistress, To stand in need of art, when youth And all thy warm friends have forsook thee! Women alive are glad to seek her friendship, To make up the fair number of their graces, Or else the reckoning would fall short sometimes, And servants would look out for better wages. _Enter_ 3D SOLDIER, _with_ GOVIANUS _disguised_. 2D SOL. He's come, my lord. TYR. Depart then: is that he? 3D SOL. The privatest I could get, my lord. GOV. [_Aside._] O heaven! marry patience to my spirit! Give me a sober fury, I beseech thee: A rage that may not overcharge my blood, And do myself most hurt! 'tis strange to me To see thee here at court, and gone from hence. Didst thou make haste to leave the world for this? O, who dares play with destiny but he That wears security so thick upon him, The thought of death and hell cannot pierce through? TYR. 'Twas circumspectly carried: leave us, go! Be nearer, sir: thou'rt much commended to us. GOV. It is the hand, my lord, commends the workman. TYR. Thou speak'st both modesty and truth in that: We need that art that thou art master of. GOV. My king is master both of that and me. TYR. Look on yon face, and tell me what it wants. GOV. Which? that, sir? TYR. That! what wants it? GOV. Troth, my lord, Some thousand years' sleep and a marble pillow. TYR. What's that? observe it still: all the best arts Have the most fools and drunkards to their master. Thy apprehension has too gross a film To be employed at court; what colour wants she? GOV. By my troth, all, sir; T see none she has, Nor none she cares for. TYR. I am overmatch'd here. [_Aside._ GOV. A lower chamber, with less noise, were kindlier For her, poor woman, whatsoe'er she was. TYR. But how, if we be pleas'd to have it thus, And thou well-hired to do what we command? Is not your work for money I GOV. Yes, my lord: I would not trust but few, an' I could choose. TYR. Let but thy art hide death upon her face, That now looks fearfully on us, and strive To give our eye delight in that pale part, Which draws so many pities from these springs, And thy reward for't shall outlast thy end, And reach to thy friend's fortunes and his friend. GOV. Say you so, my lord? I'll work out my heart then, But I'll show art enough. TYR. About it, then: I never wish'd so seriously for health After long sickness.