+Duke.+ Yes, far more kind than live, and show Thy heart no love. O Artabella, that thou wert My sister! Nothing but brother's love were then Thy due; and I could richly pay thee in That coin, a million more than ever brother did. +Art.+ Wou'd nature then had made me so, or else Had given me never a heart. +Duke.+ What wou'dst Thou have me do, poor Artabella? +Art.+ Nothing But love me, sir. +Duke.+ See, what thou doest ask A man, a god wou'd do; and yet I can't; 'Tis not thy want of beauty, but my fate. Angels themselves, to look upon thy face, Wou'd take a journey twice a day from heaven. +Art.+ If you would come, though far a shorter way, You shou'd be much more welcome. +Duke.+ Sweet tongue, lie still, offer no more such love, As gods themselves to have wou'd think a bliss, Since all thy kindness does but wound my heart, To see thine shipwreck'd in a sea of love, And cannot give it harbour in my breast. +Art.+ Sir, let me beg one thing of you then. +Duke.+ With all my soul, be it my dukedom, and 'Tis thine. +Art.+ 'Tis no such great request; 'Tis only when you meet me, say: I hate Thee, Artabella. +Duke.+ Why, could that word please thee? +Art.+ No; but to hear it said by you, would bring My death, then I wou'd thank you for my rest. Would you not come unto my grave, sir? +Duke.+ O yes, and make thy coffin float with a sea Of tears. +Art.+ Fair sir, of what? +Duke.+ Of grief. +Art.+ O me! A sea of tears, and yet not one of love! Waste not such precious drops upon my grave, it will Not satisfy my hovering soul to see Your eyes drop pity without love. Farewell, sir. O for a grave, that were a resting place; Good heart, be kind, and break apace! [_Exit._ +Duke.+ Heaven love thee for me! Base Amphelia, Thou art the author of my horrid sin. [_Exit._ _Enter +Philidor+ and +Mirida+._ +Phil.+ Thou talk'st of sport, Mirida; if all the Sport we have had already with our lovers, Come not short of this, hang me. You say you have Invited them already to my funeral. +Mir.+ Yes, yes. [_+Philidor+ is laid out like a corpse._ +Phil.+ So, so, methinks my body lies In great state, to see the tribe that will come By-and-by; here will be half a dozen Chief mourners, which should have been my wives, and Some three or four sons and heirs, besides three Or four hopeful daughters; these, with The congregation of nurses, will howl me A pleasant dirge. Mirida, you being my Executrix, must carry yourself very gravely; Here's my will, which you must read to 'em; I'll be The priest myself. Hark, somebody knocks [_Knocks within._ At the gate.