_Ferd._ Call them your children; For though our national law distinguish bastards From true legitimate issue, compassionate nature Makes them all equal. _Duch._ Do you visit me for this? You violate a sacrament o' the church Shall make you howl in hell for't. _Ferd._ It had been well, Could you have lived thus always; for, indeed, You were too much i' the light:--but no more; I come to seal my peace with you. Here's a hand [_Gives her a dead man's hand._ To which you have vowed much love; the ring upon't You gave. _Duch._ I affectionately kiss it. _Ferd._ Pray, do, and bury the print of it in your heart. I will leave this ring with you for a love-token; And the hand as sure as the ring; and do not doubt But you shall have the heart too: when you need a friend, Send it to him that owned it; you shall see Whether he can aid you. _Duch._ You are very cold: I fear you are not well after your travel.-- Ha! lights! O, horrible! _Ferd._ Let her have lights enough. [_Exit._ _Duch._ What witchcraft doth he practise, that he hath left A dead man's hand here? [_Here is discovered, behind a traverse,[134] the artificial figures of_ ANTONIO _and his_ Children, _appearing as if they were dead._ _Bos._ Look you, here's the piece from which 'twas ta'en. He doth present you this sad spectacle, That, now you know directly they are dead, Hereafter you may wisely cease to grieve For that which cannot be recoverèd. _Duch._ There is not between Heaven and earth one wish I stay for after this: it wastes me more Than were't my picture, fashioned out of wax, Stuck with a magical needle, and then buried In some foul dunghill; and yond's an excellent property For a tyrant, which I would account mercy. _Bos._ What's that? _Duch._ If they would bind me to that lifeless trunk, And let me freeze to death. _Bos._ Come, you must live. _Duch._ That's the greatest torture souls feel in hell, In hell, that they must live, and cannot die. Portia, I'll new kindle thy coals again, And revive the rare and almost dead example Of a loving wife. _Bos._ O, fie! despair? remember You are a Christian. _Duch._ The church enjoins fasting: I'll starve myself to death. _Bos._ Leave this vain sorrow. Things being at the worst begin to mend: the bee When he hath shot his sting into your hand, May then play with your eyelid. _Duch._ Good comfortable fellow, Persuade a wretch that's broke upon the wheel To have all his bones new set; entreat him live To be executed again. Who must despatch me? I account this world a tedious theatre, For I do play a part in't 'gainst my will. _Bos._ Come, be of comfort; I will save your life. _Duch._ Indeed, I have not leisure to tend So small a business. _Bos._ Now, by my life, I pity you.