Your love by ours we measure,
Till we have lost our treasure;
But dying is a pleasure,
When living is a pain.
Re-enter Torrismond.
Tor. Still she is here, and still I cannot speak;
But wander, like some discontented ghost,
That oft appears, but is forbid to talk.[Going again.
Leo. O, Torrismond, if you resolve my death,
You need no more, but to go hence again;
Will you not speak?
Tor. I cannot.
Leo. Speak! oh, speak!
Your anger would be kinder than your silence.
Tor. Oh!—