Vit. If Florence be i' th' court, would he would kill me! Gas. Fool! Princes give rewards with their own hands, But death or punishment by the hands of other. Lodo. Sirrah, you once did strike me; I 'll strike you Unto the centre. Flam. Thou 'lt do it like a hangman, a base hangman, Not like a noble fellow, for thou see'st I cannot strike again. Lodo. Dost laugh? Flam. Wouldst have me die, as I was born, in whining? Gas. Recommend yourself to heaven. Flam. No, I will carry mine own commendations thither. Lodo. Oh, I could kill you forty times a day, And use 't four years together, 'twere too little! Naught grieves but that you are too few to feed The famine of our vengeance. What dost think on? Flam. Nothing; of nothing: leave thy idle questions. I am i' th' way to study a long silence: To prate were idle. I remember nothing. There 's nothing of so infinite vexation As man's own thoughts. Lodo. O thou glorious strumpet! Could I divide thy breath from this pure air When 't leaves thy body, I would suck it up, And breathe 't upon some dunghill. Vit. You, my death's-man! Methinks thou dost not look horrid enough, Thou hast too good a face to be a hangman: If thou be, do thy office in right form; Fall down upon thy knees, and ask forgiveness. Lodo. Oh, thou hast been a most prodigious comet! But I 'll cut off your train. Kill the Moor first. Vit. You shall not kill her first; behold my breast: I will be waited on in death; my servant Shall never go before me. Gas. Are you so brave? Vit. Yes, I shall welcome death, As princes do some great ambassadors; I 'll meet thy weapon half-way. Lodo. Thou dost tremble: Methinks, fear should dissolve thee into air. Vit. Oh, 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. Gas. Thou art my task, black fury. Zan. 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. Lodo. Strike, strike, With a joint motion. [They strike. Vit. 'Twas a manly blow; The next thou giv'st, murder some sucking infant; And then thou wilt be famous. Flam. Oh, what blade is 't? A Toledo, or an English fox? I ever thought a culter should distinguish The cause of my death, rather than a doctor. Search my wound deeper; tent it with the steel That made it. Vit. Oh, my greatest sin lay in my blood! Now my blood pays for 't.