Cursed be my indiscreet trials! O my immeasurably loving—
Cri. She stirs, give air, she breathes!
Bea. Where am I? Ha! how have I slipp’d off life?
Am I in heaven? O my lord, though not loving, 51
By our eternal being, yet give me leave
To rest by thy dear[102] side! Am I not in heaven?
Free. O eternally much loved,[103] recollect your spirits!
Bea. Ha, you do speak! I do see you, I do live!
I would not die now: let me not burst with wonder.
Free. Call up your blood; I live to honour you
As the admired glory of your sex.
Nor ever hath my love been false to you;
Only I presum’d to try your faith too much, 60
For which I most am grieved.
Cri. Brother, I must be plain with you, you have wrong’d us.
Free. I am not so covetous to deny it;
But yet, when my discourse hath stay’d your quaking,
You will be smoother lipp’d; and the delight
And satisfaction which we all have got,
Under these strange disguisings, when you know,
You will be mild and quiet, forget at last:
It is much joy to think on sorrows past.
Bea. Do you then live? and are you not untrue? 70
Let me not die with joy; pleasure’s more extreme
Than grief; there’s nothing sweet to man but mean.