Francisco. Dead!
Monticelso. Blest lady, thou art now above thy woes!
* * * * * *
Giovanni. What do the dead do, uncle? do they eat,
Hear music, go a-hunting, and be merry,
As we that live?
Francisco. No, coz; they sleep.
Giovanni. Lord, Lord, that I were dead!
I have not slept these six nights.—When do they wake?
Francisco. When God shall please.
Giovanni. Good God, let her sleep ever!
For I have known her wake an hundred nights
When all the pillow where she laid her head
Was brine-wet with her tears. I am to complain to you, sir;
I'll tell you how they have used her now she's dead:
They wrapped her in a cruel fold of lead,
And would not let me kiss her.
Francisco. Thou didst love her.
Giovanni. I have often heard her say she gave me suck,
And it should seem by that she dearly loved me,
Since princes seldom do it.