Nic. Cor. We two will do it, Sir.
Soph. Away, ye fish-fac'd Rascals.
Val. Martius,
To Eclipse this great Eclipse labours thy fame;
Valerius thy Brother shall for once
Turn Executioner: Give me the sword.
Now Sophocles, I'll strike as suddenly
As thou dar'st die.
Soph. Thou canst not. And Valerius,
'Tis less dishonour to thee thus to kill me,
Then bid me kneel to Martius: 'tis to murther
The fame of living men, which great ones do;
Their studies strangle, poyson makes away,
The wretched hangman only ends the Play.
Val. Art thou prepar'd?
Soph. Yes.
Val. Bid thy wife farewell.
Soph. No, I will take no leave: My Dorigen,
Yonder above, 'bout Ariadnes Crown
My spirit shall hover for thee; prethee haste.
Dor. Stay Sophocles, with this tie up my sight,
Let not soft nature so transform[e]d be
(And lose her gentle[r] sex'd humanitie)
To make me see my Lord bleed. So, 'tis well:
Never one object underneath the Sun
Will I behold before my Sophocles.
Farewell: now teach the Romans how to die.
Mar. Dost know what 'tis to die?