Art. 'Tis no such great request;
'Tis only when you meet me, say: I hate
Thee, Artabella.
Duke. Why, could that word please thee?
Art. No; but to hear it said by you, would bring
My death, then I wou'd thank you for my rest.
Would you not come unto my grave, sir?
Duke. O yes, and make thy coffin float with a sea
Of tears.
Art. Fair sir, of what?
Duke. Of grief.
Art. O me!
A sea of tears, and yet not one of love!
Waste not such precious drops upon my grave, it will
Not satisfy my hovering soul to see
Your eyes drop pity without love. Farewell, sir.
O for a grave, that were a resting place;
Good heart, be kind, and break apace! [Exit.
Duke. Heaven love thee for me! Base Amphelia,
Thou art the author of my horrid sin. [Exit.
Enter Philidor and Mirida.
Phil. Thou talk'st of sport, Mirida; if all the
Sport we have had already with our lovers,
Come not short of this, hang me. You say you have
Invited them already to my funeral.