_Flam._ Thou dost instruct me nobly: take these pistols, Because my hand is stained with blood already: Two of these you shall level at my breast, The other 'gainst your own, and so we'll die Most equally contented: but first swear Not to outlive me. _Vit. Cor. and Zanche._ Most religiously. _Flam._ Then here's an end of me; farewell, daylight! And, O contemptible physic, that dost take So long a study, only to preserve So short a life, I take my leave of thee!-- These are two cupping-glasses that shall draw [_Showing the pistols._ All my infected blood out. Are you ready? _Vit. Cor. and Zanche._ Ready. _Flam._ Whither shall I go now? O Lucian, thy ridiculous purgatory! to find Alexander the Great cobbling shoes, Pompey tagging points, and Julius Cæsar making hair-buttons! Hannibal selling blacking, and Augustus crying garlic! Charlemagne selling lists by the dozen, and King Pepin crying apples in a cart drawn with one horse! Whether I resolve to fire, earth, water, air, Or all the elements by scruples, I know not, Nor greatly care.--Shoot, shoot: Of all deaths the violent death is best; For from ourselves it steals ourselves so fast, The pain, once apprehended, is quite past. [_They shoot: he falls; and they run to him, and tread upon him._ _Vit. Cor._ What, are you dropt? _Flam._ I am mixed with earth already: as you are noble, Perform your vows, and bravely follow me. _Vit. Cor._ Whither? to hell? _Zanche._ To most assured damnation? _Vit. Cor._ O thou most cursèd devil! _Zanche._ Thou art caught-- _Vit. Cor._ In thine own engine. I tread the fire out That would have been my ruin. _Flam._ Will you be perjured? what a religious oath was Styx, that the gods never durst swear by, and violate! O, that we had such an oath to minister, and to be so well kept in our courts of justice! _Vit. Cor._ Think whither thou art going. _Zanche._ And remember What villanies thou hast acted. _Vit. Cor._ This thy death Shall make me like a blazing ominous star: Look up and tremble. _Flam._ O, I am caught with a springe! _Vit. Cor._ You see the fox comes many times short home; 'Tis here proved true. _Flam._ Killed with a couple of braches![95] _Vit. Cor._ No fitter offering for the infernal Furies Than one in whom they reigned while he was living. _Flam._ O, the way's dark and horrid! I cannot see: Shall I have no company? _Vit. Cor._ O, yes, thy sins Do run before thee to fetch fire from hell, To light thee thither. _Flam._ O, I smell soot, Most stinking soot! the chimney is a-fire: My liver's parboiled, like Scotch holly-bread; There's a plumber laying pipes in my guts, it scalds.-- Wilt thou outlive me? _Zanche._ Yes, and drive a stake. Through thy body; for we'll give it out Thou didst this violence upon thyself.