Giov. What do the deade do, uncle? do they eate,
Heare musicke, goe a hunting, and bee merrie,
As wee that live?
Fran. No, cose; they sleepe.
Giov. Lord, Lord, that I were dead!
I have not slept these sixe nights. When doe they wake?
Fran. When God shall please.
Giov. Good God let her sleepe ever!
For I have knowne her wake an hundredth nights,
When all the pillow, where she laid her head,