Make not your heart so dead a peece of flesh,

To feare, more then to love me. Sir, be confident,

What is’t distracts you? This is flesh and blood, sir;

’Tis not the figure cut in allablaster

Kneeles at my husbands tombe. Awake, awake, man,

I do here put off all vaine ceremony,

And onely doe appeare to you a yong widow

That claimes you for her husband, and like a widow,

I use but halfe a blush in’t.

Ant.       Truth speake for me,