Thier. 'Tis terrible.
Ordel. 'Tis so much the more noble.
Thier. 'Tis full of fearful shadows.
Ordel. So is sleep, Sir.
Or any thing that's meerly ours, and mortal,
We were begotten gods else; but those fears
Feeling but once the fires of nobler thoughts,
Flie, like the shapes of clouds we form, to nothing.
Thier. Suppose it death.
Ordel. I do.
Thier. And endless parting
With all we can call ours, with all our sweetness,
With youth, strength, pleasure, people, time, nay reason:
For in the silent grave, no conversation,
No joyful tread of friends, no voice of Lovers,
No careful Fathers counsel, nothing's h[e]ard,
Nor nothing is, but all oblivion,
Dust and an endless darkness, and dare you woman
Desire this place?
Ord[e]l. 'Tis of all sleeps the sweetest,
Children begin it to us, strong men seek it,
And Kings from heighth of all their painted glories
Fall like spent exhalations, to this centre:
And those are fools that fear it, or imagine
A few unhandsome pleasures, or lifes profits
Can recompence this place; and mad that staies it,
Till age blow out their lights, or rotten humors,
Bring them dispers'd to th' earth.
Thier. Then you can suffer?
Ordel. As willingly as say it.