[Aside to Zanche.] Cry out for help!
Makes us forsake that which was made for man,
The world, to sink to that was made for devils,
Eternal darkness!
Zan. Help, help!
Flam. I 'll stop your throat
With winter plums.
Vit. I pray thee yet remember,
Millions are now in graves, which at last day
Like mandrakes shall rise shrieking.
Flam. Leave your prating,
For these are but grammatical laments,
Feminine arguments: and they move me,
As some in pulpits move their auditory,
More with their exclamation than sense
Of reason, or sound doctrine.
Zan. [Aside.] Gentle madam,
Seem to consent, only persuade him to teach
The way to death; let him die first.
Vit. 'Tis good, I apprehend it.--
To kill one's self is meat that we must take
Like pills, not chew'd, but quickly swallow it;
The smart o' th' wound, or weakness of the hand,
May else bring treble torments.
Flam. I have held it
A wretched and most miserable life,
Which is not able to die.
Vit. Oh, but frailty!
Yet I am now resolv'd; farewell, affliction!
Behold, Brachiano, I that while you liv'd
Did make a flaming altar of my heart
To sacrifice unto you, now am ready
To sacrifice heart and all.
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