Vit. I will read it: I give that portion to thee, and no other, Which Cain groan'd under, having slain his brother. Flam. A most courtly patent to beg by. Vit. You are a villain! Flam. Is 't come to this? they say affrights cure agues: Thou hast a devil in thee; I will try If I can scare him from thee. Nay, sit still: My lord hath left me yet two cases of jewels, Shall make me scorn your bounty; you shall see them. [Exit. Vit. Sure he 's distracted. Zan. Oh, he 's desperate! For your own safety give him gentle language. [He enters with two cases of pistols. Flam. Look, these are better far at a dead lift, Than all your jewel house. Vit. And yet, methinks, These stones have no fair lustre, they are ill set. Flam. I 'll turn the right side towards you: you shall see How they will sparkle. Vit. Turn this horror from me! What do you want? what would you have me do? Is not all mine yours? have I any children? Flam. Pray thee, good woman, do not trouble me With this vain worldly business; say your prayers: Neither yourself nor I should outlive him The numbering of four hours. Vit. Did he enjoin it? Flam. He did, and 'twas a deadly jealousy, Lest any should enjoy thee after him, That urged him vow me to it. For my death, I did propound it voluntarily, knowing, If he could not be safe in his own court, Being a great duke, what hope then for us? Vit. This is your melancholy, and despair. Flam. Away: Fool thou art, to think that politicians DO use to kill the effects or injuries And let the cause live. Shall we groan in irons, Or be a shameful and a weighty burthen To a public scaffold? This is my resolve: I would not live at any man's entreaty, Nor die at any's bidding. Vit. Will you hear me? Flam. My life hath done service to other men, My death shall serve mine own turn: make you ready. Vit. Do you mean to die indeed? Flam. With as much pleasure, As e'er my father gat me. Vit. Are the doors lock'd? Zan. Yes, madam. Vit. Are you grown an atheist? will you turn your body, Which is the goodly palace of the soul, To the soul's slaughter-house? Oh, the cursed devil, Which doth present us with all other sins Thrice candied o'er, despair with gall and stibium; Yet we carouse it off. [Aside to Zanche.] Cry out for help! Makes us forsake that which was made for man, The world, to sink to that was made for devils, Eternal darkness! Zan. Help, help! Flam. I 'll stop your throat With winter plums. Vit. I pray thee yet remember, Millions are now in graves, which at last day Like mandrakes shall rise shrieking. Flam. Leave your prating, For these are but grammatical laments, Feminine arguments: and they move me, As some in pulpits move their auditory, More with their exclamation than sense Of reason, or sound doctrine.