Cla. Why should I love thus foolishly? thus desperately?
And give away my heart where no hope's left me?
Why should not the true counsel of a friend restrain me?
The Devils mouth I run into affright me,
The honor of the Lady, charm my wildness;
I have no power, no Being of my self,
No reason strong enough now left within me
To bind my Will: Oh Love, thou god, or devil,
Or what thou art, that playes the tyrant in me.
Soto. Oh.
Cla. What's that cry?
Soto. A Surgeon, a Surgeon,
Twenty good Surgeons.
Cla. 'Tis not far from me,
Some murther o' my life.
Soto. Will you let me dye here?
No drink come, nor no Surgeon?
Cla. 'Tis my man sure,
His voice, and here he lies: how is it with thee?
Soto. I am slain, Sir, I am slain.
Cla. Slain? Who has slain thee?
Soto. Kill'd, kill'd, out-right kill'd.