Dor. That you best know;
But the malicious world will judge the worst.
Alv. O what a sophister has hell procured,
To argue for damnation!
Dor. Peace, old dotard.
Mankind, that always judge of kings with malice,
Will think he knew this incest, and pursued it.
His only way to rectify mistakes,
And to redeem her honour, is to die.
Seb. Thou hast it right, my dear, my best Alonzo!
And that, but petty reparation too;
But all I have to give.
Dor. Your, pardon, sir;
You may do more, and ought.
Seb. What, more than death?
Dor. Death! why, that's children's sport; a stage-play death;
We act it every night we go to bed.
Death, to a man in misery, is sleep.
Would you,—who perpetrated such a crime,
As frightened nature, made the saints above
Shake heavens eternal pavement with their trembling
To view that act,—would you but barely die?
But stretch your limbs, and turn on t'other side.
To lengthen out a black voluptuous slumber,
And dream you had your sister in your arms?
Seb. To expiate this, can I do more than die?
Dor. O yes, you must do more, you must be damned;
You must be damned to all eternity;
And sure self-murder is the readiest way.