Gas. Recommend yourself to heaven.
Flam. No, I will carry mine own commendations thither.
Lodo. Oh, I could kill you forty times a day,
And use 't four years together, 'twere too little!
Naught grieves but that you are too few to feed
The famine of our vengeance. What dost think on?
Flam. Nothing; of nothing: leave thy idle questions.
I am i' th' way to study a long silence:
To prate were idle. I remember nothing.
There 's nothing of so infinite vexation
As man's own thoughts.
Lodo. O thou glorious strumpet!
Could I divide thy breath from this pure air
When 't leaves thy body, I would suck it up,
And breathe 't upon some dunghill.
Vit. You, my death's-man!
Methinks thou dost not look horrid enough,
Thou hast too good a face to be a hangman:
If thou be, do thy office in right form;
Fall down upon thy knees, and ask forgiveness.
Lodo. Oh, thou hast been a most prodigious comet!
But I 'll cut off your train. Kill the Moor first.
Vit. You shall not kill her first; behold my breast:
I will be waited on in death; my servant
Shall never go before me.
Gas. Are you so brave?
Vit. Yes, I shall welcome death,
As princes do some great ambassadors;
I 'll meet thy weapon half-way.