_D'Am._ Dead be your tongues! Drop out Mine eye-balls and let envious Fortune play At tennis with 'em. Have I lived to this? Malicious Nature, hadst thou borne me blind, Thou hadst yet been something favourable to me. No breath? no motion? Prithee tell me, Heaven, Hast shut thine eye to wink at murder; or Hast put this sable garment on to mourn At's death? Not one poor spark in the whole spacious sky Of all that endless number would vouchsafe To shine?--You viceroys to the king of Nature, Whose constellations govern mortal births, Where is that fatal planet ruled at his Nativity? that might ha' pleased to light him out, As well as into the world, unless it be Ashamèd I have been the instrument Of such a good man's cursèd destiny.-- _Bel._ Passion transports you. Recollect yourself. Lament him not. Whether our deaths be good Or bad, it is not death, but life that tries. He lived well; therefore, questionless, well dies. _D'Am._ Ay, 'tis an easy thing for him that has No pain, to talk of patience. Do you think That Nature has no feeling? _Bel._ Feeling? Yes. But has she purposed anything for nothing? What good receives this body by your grief? Whether is't more unnatural, not to grieve For him you cannot help with it, or hurt Yourself with grieving, and yet grieve in vain? _D'Am._ Indeed, had he been taken from me like A piece o' dead flesh, I should neither ha' felt it Nor grieved for't. But come hither, pray look here. Behold the lively tincture of his blood! Neither the dropsy nor the jaundice in't, But the true freshness of a sanguine red, For all the fog of this black murderous night Has mixed with it. For anything I know He might ha' lived till doomsday, and ha' done More good than either you or I. O brother! He was a man of such a native goodness, As if regeneration had been given Him in his mother's womb. So harmless That rather than ha' trod upon a worm He would ha' shunned the way. So dearly pitiful that ere the poor Could ask his charity with dry eyes he gave 'em Relief with tears--with tears--yes, faith, with tears. _Bel._ Take up the corpse. For wisdom's sake let reason fortify this weakness. _D'Am._ Why, what would you ha' me do? Foolish Nature Will have her course in spite o' wisdom. But I have e'en done. All these words were But a great wind; and now this shower of tears Has laid it, I am calm again. You may Set forward when you will. I'll follow you Like one that must and would not. _Lang._ Our opposition will but trouble him. _Bel._ The grief that melts to tears by itself is spent; Passion resisted grows more violent. [_Exeunt all except_ D'AMVILLE. BORACHIO _ascends._ _D'Am._ Here's a sweet comedy. 'T begins with _O Dolentis_[149] and concludes with ha, ha, he! _Bor._ Ha, ha, he!