_Soph._ Thou canst not. And _Valerius_, 'Tis less dishonour to thee thus to kill me, Then bid me kneel to _Martius_: 'tis to murther The fame of living men, which great ones do; Their studies strangle, poyson makes away, The wretched hangman only ends the Play. _Val._ Art thou prepar'd? _Soph._ Yes. _Val._ Bid thy wife farewell. _Soph._ No, I will take no leave: My _Dorigen_, Yonder above, 'bout _Ariadnes_ Crown My spirit shall hover for thee; prethee haste. _Dor._ Stay _Sophocles_, with this tie up my sight, Let not soft nature so transform[e]d be (And lose her gentle[r] sex'd humanitie) To make me see my Lord bleed. So, 'tis well: Never one object underneath the Sun Will I behold before my _Sophocles_. Farewell: now teach the Romans how to die. _Mar._ Dost know what 'tis to die? _Soph._ Thou dost not, _Martius_, And therefore not what 'tis to live; to die Is to begin to live: It is to end An old stale weary work, and to commence A newer and a better. 'Tis to leave Deceitfull knaves for the societie Of gods and goodness. Thou thy self must part At last from all thy garlands, pleasures, Triumphs, And prove thy fortitude, what then 'twill do. _Val._ But ar't not griev'd nor vex'd to leave life thus? _Soph._ Why should I grieve, or vex for being sent To them I ever lov'd best? now I'll kneel, But with my back toward thee; 'tis the last duty This trunk can doe the gods. _Mar._ Strike, strike, _Valerius_, Or _Martius_ heart will leap out at his mouth. This is a man, a woman! Kiss thy Lord, And live with all the freedome you were wont. O Love! thou doubly hast afflicted me, With virtue, and with beauty. Treacherous heart, My hand shall cast thee quick into my urne, E're thou transgress this knot of pietie. _Val._ What ails my Brother? _Soph. Martius_, oh _Martius_! Thou now hast found a way to conquer me. _Dor._ O star of _Rome_, what gratitude can speak Fit words to follow such a deed as this? _Mar._ Doth _Juno_ talk, or _Dorigen_? _Val._ You are observ'd. _Mar._ This admirable Duke (_Valerius_) With his disdain of Fortune, and of Death, Captiv'd himself, hath captivated me: And though my arm hath ta'ne his body here, His soul hath subjugated _Martius_ soul: By _Romulus_, he is all soul, I think; He hath no flesh, and spirit cannot b[e] gyv'd; Then we have vanquish'd nothing; he is free, And _Martius_ walks now in captivitie. _Soph._ How fares the noble Roman? _Mar._ Why? _Dor._ Your blood Is sunk down to your heart, and your bright eyes Have lost their splendor. _Mar._ Baser fires go out, When the Sun shines on 'em: I am not well, An Apoplectick fit I use to have After my heats in war carelesly coold.