Thier. And meet death like a measure.
Ordel. I am stedfast.
Thier. Thou shalt be sainted woman, and thy Tomb
Cut out in Chrystal, pure and good as thou art;
And on it shall be graven every age,
Succeeding Peers of France that rise by thy fall,
Tell thou liest there like old and fruitful nature.
Darest thou behold thy happiness?
Ordel. I dare Sir.
Thier. Ha? [Pul[l]s off her veil, lets fall his sword.
Mar. Oh Sir, you must not doe it.
Thier. No, I dare not.
There is an Angel keeps that Paradice,
A fiery Angel friend; oh virtue, virtue,
Ever and endless virtue.
Ordel. Strike, Sir, strike;
And if in my poor death fair France may merit,
Give me a thousand blows, be killing me
A thousand days.
Thier. First let the earth be barren,
And man no more remembred, rise Ordella,
The nearest to thy maker, and the purest
That ever dull flesh shewed us,—oh my heart-strings. [Exit.
Mart. I see you full of wonder, therefore noblest,
And truest amongst Women, I will tell you
The end of this strange accident.