Ori. Oh, oh.
Nor. Why 'tis here,
The spirit of a huntesman choak'd with butter:
Here's a new tomb, new trickments too.
Mir. For certain,
This has not been three days here.
Nor. And a Tablet
With rimes upon't.
Mir. I prethee read 'em Norandine.
Nor. An Epi—and Epi—taff. I think 'tis, I 'tis taff, an Epitaff.
Upon the most excell, excell—lent—and.
Mir. Thou canst not read.
Nor. I have spoyl'd mine eyes with gunpowder.
Mir. An Epitaph upon the most virtuous, and excellent Lady
The honor of Chastity, Oriana.
Nor. The grand masters sister: how a devil came she here?
When slipt she out o'th'way, the stone's but half upon her.