Diego. 'Tis very true; but most that die would live,
If to themselves they could new leases give.
Don O. We must possess our souls with such indifference,
As not to wish nor fear to part from hence.
Diego. The first I may pretend to, for I swear
I do not wish to part: 'tis true, I fear.
Don O. Fear! why, death's only cruel when she flies,
And will not deign to close the weeping eyes.
Diego. That is a cruelty I can forgive,
For I confess I'm not afraid to live.
Don O. We shall still live, though 'tis by others' breath—
By our good fame, which is secur'd by death.
Diego. But we shall catch such colds, sir, under ground,
That we shall never hear Fame's trumpet sound.
Don O. 'Tis but returning, when from hence we go,
As rivers to their mother-ocean flow.
Diego. We know our names and channels whilst w' are here;
W' are swallow'd in that dark abyss when there.
Don O. Engulf'd in endless joys and perfect rest,
Unchangeable, i' th' centre of the bless'd.