To wrastle with my honour, fame, and judgement.[190]
Away! forsake my house; forbeare complaints
Where thou hast bred them: here all things [are] full
Of their owne shame and sorrow—leave my house.
Tam. Sweet lord, forgive me, and I will be gone;
And till these wounds (that never balme shall close[195]
Till death hath enterd at them, so I love them,
Being opened by your hands) by death be cur'd,
I never more will grieve you with my sight;
Never endure that any roofe shall part