Mir. 'Tis a sodain change: certain the mischief
Mountferrat offer'd to her broak her heart-strings.
Nor. Would he were here, I would be the clerk my self,
And by this little light, I would bury him alive here:
Here's no lamenting now.
Ori. Oh, oh.
Nor. There 'tis.
Mir. Sure from the monument, the very stone groanes for her.
Oh, dear Lady: blessing of women, virtue of thy sex;
How art thou set for ever, how stol'n from us.
Babling, and prating now converse with women.
Nor. Sir, it rises, it looks up. [She rises up.
Mir. Heaven bless us.
Nor. It is in womans cloathes, it rises higher.
Mir. It looks about, and wonders, sure she lives Sir.
'Tis she, 'tis Oriana, 'tis that Lady.