_Vit. Cor._ O, thou art deceiv’d, I am too true a woman! Conceit can never kill me. I’ll tell thee what, I will not in my death shed one base tear; Or if look pale, for want of blood, not fear. _Gasp._ (_To_ Zanche). Thou art my task, black fury. _Zanche._ I have blood As red as either of theirs! Wilt drink some? ’Tis good for the falling-sickness: I am proud Death cannot alter my complexion, For I shall ne’er look pale. _Lod._ Strike, strike, With a joint motion. _Vit. Cor._ ’Twas a manly blow: The next thou giv’st, murther some sucking infant, And then thou wilt be famous.’ Such are some of the _terrible graces_ of the obscure, forgotten Webster. There are other parts of this play of a less violent, more subdued, and, if it were possible, even deeper character; such is the declaration of divorce pronounced by Brachiano on his wife: ‘Your hand I’ll kiss: This is the latest ceremony of my love; I’ll never more live with you,’ &c. which is in the manner of, and equal to, Deckar’s finest things:—and others, in a quite different style of fanciful poetry and bewildered passion; such as the lamentation of Cornelia, his mother, for the death of Marcello, and the parting scene of Brachiano; which would be as fine as Shakespear, if they were not in a great measure borrowed from his inexhaustible store. In the former, after Flamineo has stabbed his brother, and Hortensio comes in, Cornelia exclaims, ‘Alas! he is not dead; he’s in a trance. Why, here’s nobody shall get any thing by his death: Let me call him again, for God’s sake. _Hor._ I would you were deceiv’d. _Corn._ O you abuse me, you abuse me, you abuse me! How many have gone away thus, for want of ‘tendance? Rear up ‘s head, rear up ‘s head; his bleeding inward will kill him. _Hor._ You see he is departed. _Corn._ Let me come to him; give me him as he is. If he be turn’d to earth, let me but give him one hearty kiss, and you shall put us both into one coffin. Fetch a looking-glass: see if his breath will not stain it; or pull out some feathers from my pillow, and lay them to his lips. Will you lose him for a little pains-taking? _Hor._ Your kindest office is to pray for him. _Corn._ Alas! I would not pray for him yet. He may live to lay me i’ th’ ground, and pray for me, if you’ll let me come to him. _Enter_ Brachiano, _all armed, save the Bearer, with_ Flamineo _and Page_. _Brach._ Was this your handy-work? _Flam._ It was my misfortune. _Corn._ He lies, he lies; he did not kill him. These have killed him, that would not let him be better looked to. _Brach._ Have comfort, my griev’d mother. _Corn._ O, you screech-owl! _Hor._ Forbear, good madam. _Corn._ Let me go, let me go. (_She runs to_ Flamineo _with her knife drawn, and coming to him, lets it fall_).