_Sir quin._ O my Sonne, I am her Father; euery teare I shed, Is threescore ten yeere olde; I weepe and smile |2190| Two kinde of teares: I weepe that she must dye, I smile that she must dye a Virgin: thus We ioyfull men mocke teares, and teares mocke vs. _Ter._ What speakes that cup? _Sir quin._ White wine and poison. |2195| _Ter._ Oh: That very name of poison, poisons me; Thou Winter of a man, thou walking graue, Whose life is like a dying Taper: how Canst thou define a Louers labouring thoughts? |2200| What Sent hast thou but death? what taste but earth? The breath that purles from thee, is like the Steame Of a new-open’d vault: I know thy drift, Because thou art trauelling to the land of Graues, Thou couetst company, and hether bringst, |2205| A health of poison to pledge death: a poison For this sweete spring; this Element is mine, This is the Ayre I breath; corrupt it not; This heauen is mine, I bought it with my soule, Of him that selles a heauen, to buy a soule. |2210| _Sir quin._ Well, let her goe; she’s thine thou cal’st her thine, Thy Element, the Ayre thou breath’st; thou knowst The Ayre thou breath’st is common, make her so: Perhaps thou’t say; none but the King shall weare Thy night-gowne, she that laps thee warme with loue; |2215| And that Kings are not common: Then to shew, By consequence he cannot make her so, Indeede she may promoote her shame and thine, And with your shames, speake a good word for mine: The King shining so cleare, and we so dim, |2220| Our darke disgraces will be seene through him. Imagine her the cup of thy moist life, What man would pledge a King in his owne wife? _Ter._ She dyes: that sentence poisons her: O life! What slaue would pledge a King in his owne wife? |2225| _Cæl._ Welcome, ô poyson, phisicke against lust, Thou holesome medicine to a constant bloud; Thou rare Apothecary that canst keepe, My chastity preseru’d, within this boxe; Of tempting dust, this painted earthen pot, |2230| That stands vpon the stall of the white soule, To set the shop out like a flatterer, To draw the customers of Sinne: come, come, Thou art no poison, but a dyet-drinke, To moderate my bloud: White-innocent Wine, |2235| Art thou made guilty of my death? oh no, For thou thy selfe art poison’d, take me hence, For Innocence, shall murder Innocence. _Drinkes._ _Ter._ Holde, holde, thou shalt not dye, my Bride, my wife, O stop that speedy messenger of death; |2240| O let him not run downe that narrow path, Which leades vnto thy heart; nor carry newes To thy remoouing soule, that thou must dye.