Ant. I care not.
Feli. Art mad, or desperate? or——
Ant. Both, both, all, all: I prithee let me lie; 200
Spite of you all, I can, and I will die.
Feli. You are distraught; O, this is madness’ breath!
Ant. Each man take hence life, but no man death:
He’s a good fellow, and keeps open house:
A thousand thousand ways lead to his gate,
To his wide-mouthèd porch, when niggard life
Hath[132] but one little, little wicket through.
We wring ourselves into this wretched world,
To pule, and weep, exclaim, to curse and rail,
To fret, and ban the fates, to strike the earth, 210
As I do now. Antonio, curse thy birth,
And die!
Feli. Nay, heaven’s my comfort, now you are perverse:
You know I always loved you; prithee live.
Wilt thou strike dead thy friends, draw mourning tears?
Ant. Alas, Feliche, I ha’ ne’er a friend;
No country, father, brother, kinsman left
To weep my fate or sigh my funeral:
I roll but up and down, and fill a seat
In the dark cave of dusky misery. 220
Feli. ’Fore heaven, the Duke comes! hold you, take my key,
Slink to my chamber; look you, that is it:
There shall you find a suit I wore at sea;
Take it, and slip away. Nay, ’precious!
If you’ll be peevish, by this light, I’ll swear
Thou rail’dst upon thy love before thou diedst,
And call’d her strumpet.
Ant. She’ll not credit thee.