Oh, you abuse me, you abuse me, you abuse me! how many have gone
away thus, for lack of 'tendance! rear up 's head, rear up 's head! his
bleeding inward will kill him.
Hort. You see he is departed.
Corn. Let me come to him; give me him as he is, if he be turn'd to
earth; let me but give him one hearty kiss, and you shall put us both
in one coffin. Fetch a looking-glass: see if his breath will not stain
it; or pull out some feathers from my pillow, and lay them to his lips.
Will you lose him for a little painstaking?
Hort. Your kindest office is to pray for him.
Corn. Alas! I would not pray for him yet. He may live to lay me i' th'
ground, and pray for me, if you 'll let me come to him.
Enter Brachiano, all armed, save the beaver, with Flamineo and others
Brach. Was this your handiwork?
Flam. It was my misfortune.
Corn. He lies, he lies! he did not kill him: these have killed him,
that would not let him be better looked to.
Brach. Have comfort, my griev'd mother.
Corn. Oh, you screech-owl!
Hort. Forbear, good madam.
Corn.
Pages:
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113
114