And for that cause he’s dead. If I were you,
Now mark me well, I tell you what I’d do;
I’d mourn him decently for one chaste year,
Then look about me for another dear.
Martha.
Alas! God knows it would be hard to find
Another so completely to my mind.
A better-hearted fool you never knew,
A love of roving was his only vice;
And foreign wine, and foreign women too,