Cri. Sir, all I can yet say of you is, you are uncivil.
Free. You must deny it. By your sorrow’s leave, 31
I bring some music to make sweet your grief.
Bea. Whate’er you please. O break my heart!
Canst thou yet pant? O dost thou yet survive?
Thou didst not love him if thou now canst live!
Freevill sings.[100]
O Love, how strangely sweet
Are thy weak passions!
That love and joy should meet
In self-same fashions!
O who can tell 40
The cause why this should move?
But only this,—
No reason ask of Love!
[Beatrice swounds.[101]
Cri. Hold, peace!—the gentlest soul is sownd. O my best sister!
Free. Ha, get you gone, close the doors! My Beatrice!
[Discovers himself.