Asp. Oh, oh, oh!
Amint. This earth of mine doth tremble, and I feel
A stark affrighted motion in my blood;
My soul grows weary of her house, and I
All over am a trouble to my self;
There is some hidden power in these dead things
That calls my flesh into'em; I am cold;
Be resolute, and bear'em company:
There's something yet which I am loth to leave.
There's man enough in me to meet the fears
That death can bring, and yet would it were done;
I can find nothing in the whole discourse
Of death, I durst not meet the boldest way;
Yet still betwixt the reason and the act,
The wrong I to Aspatia did stands up,
I have not such a fault to answer,
Though she may justly arm with scorn
And hate of me, my soul will part less troubled,
When I have paid to her in tears my sorrow:
I will not leave this act unsatisfied,
If all that's left in me can answer it.
Asp. Was it a dream? there stands Amintor still:
Or I dream still.
Amint. How dost thou? speak, receive my love, and help:
Thy blood climbs up to his old place again:
There's hope of thy recovery.
Asp. Did you not name Aspatia?
Amint. I did.
Asp. And talkt of tears and sorrow unto her?
Amint. 'Tis true, and till these happy signs in thee
Did stay my course, 'twas thither I was going.
Asp. Th'art there already, and these wounds are hers:
Those threats I brought with me, sought not revenge,
But came to fetch this blessing from thy hand,
I am Aspatia yet.
Amint. Dare my soul ever look abroad agen?