_Flam._ Nothing; of nothing: leave thy idle questions. I am i' the 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. _Lod._ 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. Cor._ 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. _Lod._ O, thou hast been a most prodigious comet But I'll cut off your train,--kill the Moor first. _Vit. Cor._ 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. Cor._ Yes, I shall welcome death As princes do some great ambassadors; I'll meet thy weapon half way. _Lod._ Thou dost tremble: Methinks fear should dissolve thee into air. _Vit. Cor._ O, thou art deceived, 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. _Carlo._ Thou art my task, black Fury, _Zanche._ 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. _Lod._ Strike, strike, With a joint motion. [_They stab_ VITTORIA, ZANCHE, _and_ FLAMINEO. _Vit. Cor._ 'Twas a manly blow: The next thou giv'st, murder some sucking infant; And then thou wilt be famous. _Flam._ O, what blade is't? A Toledo, or an English fox?[98] I ever thought a cutler should distinguish The cause of my death, rather than a doctor. Search my wound deeper; tent it with the steel That made it. _Vit. Cor._ O, my greatest sin lay in my blood Now my blood pays for't. _Flam._ Thou'rt a noble sister! I love thee now: if woman do breed man, She ought to teach him manhood: fare thee well. Know, many glorious women that are famed For masculine virtue have been vicious, Only a happier silence did betide them: She hath no faults who hath the art to hide them. _Vit. Cor._ My soul, like to a ship in a black storm, Is driven, I know not whither. _Flam._ Then cast anchor. Prosperity doth bewitch men, seeming clear; But seas do laugh, show white, when rocks are near. We cease to grieve, cease to be fortune's slaves, Nay, cease to die, by dying. Art thou gone? And thou so near the bottom? false report, Which says that women vie with the nine Muses For nine tough durable lives! I do not look Who went before, nor who shall follow me; No, at myself I will begin and end. While we look up to Heaven, we confound Knowledge with knowledge. O, I am in a mist!