rike you
Unto the centre.

Flam. Thou 'lt do it like a hangman, a base hangman,
Not like a noble fellow, for thou see'st
I cannot strike again.

Lodo. Dost laugh?

Flam. Wouldst have me die, as I was born, in whining?

Gas. Recommend yourself to heaven.

Flam. No, I will carry mine own commendations thither.

Lodo. Oh, I could kill you forty times a day,
And use 't four years together, 'twere too little!
Naught grieves but that you are too few to feed
The famine of our vengeance. What dost think on?

Flam. Nothing; of nothing: leave thy idle questions.
I am i' th' 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.

Lodo. 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. 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.

Lodo. Oh, thou hast been a most prodigious comet!
But I 'll cut off your train. Kill the Moor first.

Vit. 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. Yes, I shall welcome death,
As princes do some great ambassadors;
I 'll meet thy weapon half-way.

Lodo. Thou dost tremble:
Methinks, fear should dissolve thee into air.

Vit. Oh, thou art deceiv'd, 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.

Gas. Thou art my task, black fury.

Zan. 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.

Lodo. Strike, strike,
With a joint motion. [They strike.

Vit. 'Twas a manly blow;
The next thou giv'st, murder some sucking infant;
And then thou wilt be famous.

Flam. Oh, what blade is 't?
A Toledo, or an English fox?
I ever thought a culter should distinguish
The cause of my death, rather than a doctor.
Search my wound deeper; tent it