My friendship:
How have we lived to see the English name
The scorn of these, the vilest of mankind!

_Beam._ Courage, my friend, and rather praise we heaven,
That it has chose two, such as you and me,
Who will not shame our country with our pains,
But stand, like marble statues, in their fires,
Scorched and defaced, perhaps, not melted down.
So let them burn this tenement of earth;
They can but burn me naked to my soul;
That's of a nobler frame, and will stand firm,
Upright, and unconsumed.

_Fisc._ Confess; if you have kindness, save your friend.

_Tow._ Yes, by my death I would, not my confession:
He is so brave, he would not so be saved;
But would renounce a friendship built on shame.

_Har._ Bring more candles, and burn him from the wrists up to the
elbows.

_Beam._ Do; I'll enjoy the flames like Scaevola;
And, when one's roasted, give the other hand.

_Tow._ Let me embrace you while you are a man.
Now you must lose that form; be parched and rivelled,
Like a dried mummy, or dead malefactor,
Exposed in chains, and blown about by winds.

_Beam._ Yet this I can endure.
Go on, and weary out two elements;
Vex fire and water with the experiments
Of pains far worse than death.

_Tow._ Oh, let me take my turn!
You will have double pleasure; I'm ashamed
To be the only Englishman untortured.

_Van. Her._ You soon should have your wish, but that we know
In him you suffer more.

_Har._ Fill me a brim-full glass:
Now, captain, here's to all your countrymen;
I wish your whole East India company
Were in this room, that we might use them thus.

_Fisc._ They should have fires of cloves and cinnamon;
We would cut down whole groves to honour them,
And be at cost to burn them nobly.

_Beam._ Barbarous villains! now you show yourselves

_Har._ Boy, take that candle thence, and bring it hither;
I am exalted, and would light my pipe
Just where the wick is fed with English fat.

_Van Her._ So would I; oh, the tobacco tastes divinely after it.

_Tow._ We have friends in England, who would weep to see
This acted on a theatre, which here
You make your pastime.

_Beam._ Oh, that this flesh were turned a cake of ice,
That I might in an instant melt away,
And become nothing, to escape this torment!
There is not cold enough in all the north
To quench my burning blood. [FISCAL _whispers_ HARMAN.

_Har._ Do with Beamont as you please, so Towerson die.

_Fisc._ You'll not confess yet, captain?

_