_Thier._ Tell me, Can ever these eyes more shut up in slumbers, Assure my soule there is sleepe? is there night And rest for humane labors? do not you And all the world as I do, out stare time, And live like funerall lampes never extinguisht? Is there a grave, and do not flatter me, Nor feare to tell me truth; and in that grave Is there a hope I shall sleepe, can I die, Are not my miseries immortall? o The happinesse of him that drinkes his water After his weary day, and sleepes for ever, Why do you crucifie me thus with faces, And gaping strangely upon one another, When shall I rest? _2 Doct._ O Sir, be patient. _Thier._ Am I not patient? have I not endur'd More then a maingy dog among your dosses? Am I not now your patient? yee can make Unholesome fooles sleepe for a garded foote-cloth; Whores for a hot sin offering; yet I must crave That feede ye, and protect ye, and proclame ye, Because my powre is far above your searching, Are my diseases so? can ye cure none But those of equall ignorance, dare ye kill me? _1 Doct._ We do beseech your grace be more reclam'd, This talke doth but distemper you. _Thier._ Well, I will die In spight of all your potions; one of you sleepe, Lie downe and sleepe here, that I may behold What blessed rest it is my eyes are robde of: See, he can sleepe, sleepe any where, sleepe now, When he that wakes for him can never slumber, I'st not a dainty ease? _2 Doct._ Your grace shall feele it. _Thier._ O never I, never, the eyes of heaven See but their certaine motions, and then sleepe, The rages of the _Ocean_ have their slumbers, And quiet silver calmes; each violence Crownes in his end a peace, but my fixt fires Shall never, never set, who's that? _Enter Martell, Brunhalt, Devitry, souldiers._ _Mart._ No woman, Mother of mischiefe, no, the day shall die first, And all good things live in a worse then thou art, Ere thou shalt sleepe, doest thou see him? _Brun._ Yes, and curse him, And all that love him foole, and all live by him. _Mart._ Why art thou such a monster? _Brun._ Why art thou So tame a knave to aske me? _Mart._ Hope of hell, By this faire holy light, and all his wrongs Which are above thy yeares, almost thy vices, Thou shalt not rest, not feele more what is pitty, Know nothing necessary, meete no society, But what shall curse and crucifie thee, feele in thy selfe Nothing but what thou art, bane, and bad conscience, Till this man rest; but for whose reverence Because thou art his mother, I would say Whore, this shall be, do ye nod? ile waken ye With my swords point. _Brun._ I wish no more of heaven, Nor hope no more, but a sufficient anger To torture thee.