Guido
Ah, if we die together, love, why then
Can we not lie together in one grave?
Duchess
A grave is but a narrow wedding-bed.
Guido
It is enough for us
Duchess
And they will strew it
With a stark winding-sheet, and bitter herbs:
I think there are no roses in the grave,
Or if there are, they all are withered now
Since my Lord went there.
Guido
Ah! dear Beatrice,
Your lips are roses that death cannot wither.