_Fra._ Metre Freevill live? ha, ha, live at Mestre Shatewe's! Mush[96] at Metre Shatewe's! Freevill is dead, Malheureux sall hang: and, sweet divel, dat Beatrice would but run mad, dat she would but run mad! den me would dance and sing. Metre Don Dubon, me pre ye now go to Mestres Beatrice. Tell her Freevill is sure dead, and dat he curse herself especially, for dat he was sticked in her quarrel, swearing in his last gasp, dat if it had bin in mine quarrels 'twould never have grieved him. _Free._ I will. 92 _Fra._ Prede do, and say any ting dat vil vex her. _Free._ Let me alone to vex her. _Fra._ Vil you, vil you mak a her run mad? Here, take dis ring, see me scorn to wear anyting dat was hers or his. I prede torment her, ick cannot love her; she honest and virtuous, forsooth! _Free._ Is she so? O vile creature! then let me alone with her. 100 _Fra._ Vat, vil you mak a her mad? seet, by min trat, be pretta servan; bush,[97] ick sall go to bet now. [_Exit._ _Free._ Mischief, whither wilt thou? O thou tearless woman! How monstrous is thy devil, The end of hell as thee! How miserable were it to be virtuous, If thou couldst prosper! I'll to my love, the faithful Beatrice; She has wept enough, and faith, dear soul, too much. But yet how sweet is it to think how dear 110 One's life was to his love: how mourn'd his death! 'Tis joy not to be express'd with breath: But O let him that would such passion drink, Be quiet of his speech, and only think! [_Exit._ [91] Old eds. "wenches." [92] Ed. 1. "fit, fit." [93] Old eds. "immediatlie." [94] Ed. 1. "and as." [95] Ed. 2. "vnutterable." [96] Ironical exclamation. [97] _i.e._, buss (kiss). SCENE II. BEATRICE'S _chamber_. _Enter_ BEATRICE _and_ CRISPINELLA. _Bea._ Sister, cannot a woman kill herself? is it not lawful to die when we should not live? _Cri._ O sister, 'tis a question not for us; we must do what God will. _Bea._ What God will? Alas, can torment be His glory, or our grief His pleasure! Does not the nurse's nipple, juiced over with wormwood, bid the child it should not suck? And does not Heaven, when it hath made our breath bitter unto us, say we should not live? O my best sister, 10 To suffer wounds when one may 'scape this rod Is against nature, that is against God! _Cri._ Good sister, Do not make me weep; sure Freevill was not false. I'll gage my life that strumpet, out of craft And some close second end, hath maliced[98] him.