Ware. Will you not lie with me, then?
Dor. Did ever man
Of your hairs ask such questions? I do blush
At your unreasonableness.
Ware. Nay, then——
Dor. Is't fit I should be buried?
Ware. I reach you not.
Dor. Why, to lie with you were a direct emblem
Of going to my grave.
War. I understand you.
Dor. I'll have your picture set in my weddingring
For a Death's head.
Ware. I do conceive you.
Dor. I'd
Rather lie with an ancient tomb, or embrace
An ancestor than you. D'you think I'll come
Between your winding-sheets? For what? To hear you
Depart all night, and fetch your last groan; and
I' th' morning find a deluge on the floor;
Your entrails floating, and half my husband spit
Upon the arras.