_Vir._ When we are little children, And cry and fret for every toy comes cross us; How sweetly do we shew, when sleep steals on us! When we grow great, but our affections greater, And struggle with this stubborn twin, born with us; And tug and pull, yet still we find a Giant: Had we not then the priviledge to sleep, Our everlasting sleep? he would make us idiots; The memory and monuments of good men Are more than lives, and though their tombs want tongues, Yet have they eies that daily sweat their losses; And such a tear from stone, no time can value. To die both young and good, are natures curses As the world saies; ask truth, they are bounteous blessings: For then we reach at Heaven, in our full virtues, And fix our selves new Stars, crown'd with our goodness. _Asc._ You have double arm'd me. [_Strange Musick within, Ho[b]oys._ Hark what noise is this? What horrid noise is the Sea pleas'd to sing. A hideous _Dirge_ to our deliverance? _Vir._ Stand fast now. [_Within strange cries, horrid noise, Trumpets._ _Asc._ I am fixt. _Vir._ We fear ye not. [_Enter_ Martia. Let death appear in all shapes, we smile on him. _Asc._ The Lady now. _Vir._ The face o'th' Mask is alter'd. _Asc._ What will she do? _Vir._ Do what she can, I care not. _Asc._ She looks on you Sir. _Vir._ Rather she looks through me, But yet she stirs me not. _Mart._ Poor wretched slaves, Why do you live? or if ye hope for mercy, Why do not you houl out, and fill the hold With lamentations, cries, and base submissions, Worthy our scorn? _Vir._ Madam, you are mistaken; We are no slaves to you, but to blind fortune; And if she had her eyes, and durst be certain, Certain our friend, I would not bow unto her; I would not cry, nor ask so base a mercy: If you see any thing in our appearance, Worthy your sexes softness and your own glory: Do it for that, and let that good reward it: We cannot beg. _Mart._ I'll make you beg, and bow too. _Vir._ Madam for what? _Mart._ For life; and when you hope it, Then will I laugh and triumph on your baseness. _Asc._ Madam, 'tis true, there may be such a favour And we may ask it too; ask it with honor; And thank you for that favour, nobly thank you, Though it be death; but when we beg a base life, And beg it of your scorn-- _Vir._ Y'are couzen'd woman, Your handsomness may do much, but not this way; But for your glorious hate-- _Mart._ Are ye so stubborn? 'Death, I will make you bow. _Vir._ It must be in your bed then; There you may work me to humility. _Mart._ Why, I can kill thee. _Vir._ If you do it handsomely; It may be I can thank you, else-- _Mart._ So glorious? _A[sc]._ Her cruelty now works. _Mart._ Yet woot thou?