_Thier._ And endless parting With all we can call ours, with all our sweetness, With youth, strength, pleasure, people, time, nay reason: For in the silent grave, no conversation, No joyful tread of friends, no voice of Lovers, No careful Fathers counsel, nothing's h[e]ard, Nor nothing is, but all oblivion, Dust and an endless darkness, and dare you woman Desire this place? _Ord[e]l._ 'Tis of all sleeps the sweetest, Children begin it to us, strong men seek it, And Kings from heighth of all their painted glories Fall like spent exhalations, to this centre: And those are fools that fear it, or imagine A few unhandsome pleasures, or lifes profits Can recompence this place; and mad that staies it, Till age blow out their lights, or rotten humors, Bring them dispers'd to th' earth. _Thier._ Then you can suffer? _Ordel._ As willingly as say it. _Thier. Martell_, a wonder, Here's a woman that dares die, yet tell me, Are you a Wife? _Ordel._ I am Sir. _Thier._ And have children? She sighs and weeps. _Ordel._ Oh none Sir. _Thier._ Dare you venture For a poor barren praise you ne'er shall hear, To part with these sweet hopes? _Ordel._ With all but Heaven, And yet die full of children; he that reads me When I am ashes, is my Son in wishes, And those chaste dames that keep my memory, Singing my yearly requiems, are my Daughters. _Thier._ Then there is nothing wanting but my knowledg[e]. And what I must doe, Lady? _Ordel._ You are the King, Sir, And what you do I'll suffer, and that blessing That you desire, the gods showr on the Kingdom. _Thier._ Thus much before I strike then, for I must kill you, The gods have will'd it so, they're made the blessing Must make _France_ young again, and me a man, Keep up your strength still nobly. _Ordel._ Fear me not. _Thier._ And meet death like a measure. _Ordel._ I am stedfast. _Thier._ Thou shalt be sainted woman, and thy Tomb Cut out in Chrystal, pure and good as thou art; And on it shall be graven every age, Succeeding Peers of _France_ that rise by thy fall, Tell thou liest there like old and fruitful nature. Darest thou behold thy happiness? _Ordel._ I dare Sir. _Thier._ Ha? [_Pul[l]s off her veil, lets fall his sword._ _Mar._ Oh Sir, you must not doe it. _Thier._ No, I dare not. There is an Angel keeps that Paradice, A fiery Angel friend; oh virtue, virtue, Ever and endless virtue. _Ordel._ Strike, Sir, strike; And if in my poor death fair _France_ may merit, Give me a thousand blows, be killing me A thousand days. _Thier._ First let the earth be barren, And man no more remembred, rise _Ordella_, The nearest to thy maker, and the purest That ever dull flesh shewed us,--oh my heart-strings. [_Exit._