MAR. As lightly burden'd with the weight of crimes, As spotless infants or poor harmless lambs, Thus I ascend my heaven. This first step lower Mounts to this next; this thus and thus[185] hath brought My body's frame unto its highest throne: Here doth her office end, and hence my soul With golden wings of thought shall mount the sky, And reach a palace[186] of pure sanctity. Farewell, my sovereign! Madam, within your thoughts Make me a tomb, and love my memory. Brother, farewell; nay, do not mourn my death, It is not I that die to spot our house, Or make you live in after-obloquy. Then weep no more, but take my last adieu: My virtues, not my faults, preserve with you. Lastly, to you that are my last of hope-- Nay, do not hide your eyes, I love them still, To part friends now is greatest charity. O, be thy days as fruitful in delights, As Eden in choice flowers: thine honours such As all the world may strive to imitate. Be master of thy wishes: only this, When the sad nurse, to still the wrangling babe, Shall sing the careful story of my death, Give me a sigh from thy heart's purest breath: And so farewell. EXE. Madam, kneel here; forgive me for your death. MAR. With all my heart, thou art but law's poor hand. Thus to my death I bow, and yet arise; Angels, protect my spirit in the skies. [_He offers to strike._ PHIL. Hold, or thine hand shall be thine own destruction! CYP. Never did music sound with better voice! Unbind the lady. FLO. The fear of death hath brought her to a swoon. CYP. Endeavour her recovery. EPIRE. Sister, dear sister, call thy spirits back: Sister, O sister! hearken to my woes, Recover breath, and live with happiness. QUEEN. She stirs; give way to air, that she may breathe: Speak, Mariana, thy woes are cancelled. MAR. You are not charitable unto my moans, Thus to afflict me with a double punishment. One death for one poor fault might well suffice: They are most wretched who twice live and die. PHIL. Madam, to save your life, I kill my soul, And speckle that which was immaculate. Black perjury, that open-ey'd disease, Which is the plague-sore of society, Brands me with mischief, and protests I hold Nothing within me but unworthiness: And all these ills are your creation. MAR. Which to wash off, lo, here I yield myself An humble sacrifice to love and thee: All my best hopes, my fortunes and my love, My faith, my service, and my loyalty, Shall as thy slaves attend on thy commands, And make me famous in thy[187] suffrages. CYP. Receive her, Philocles, for it pleaseth us.