Amp. What is impossible? what canst not get?
Shad. No help for my old master.
Andel. Hast thou been all this while calling for help?
Shad. Yes, sir: he scorned all Famagosta when he was in his huffing,[380] and now he lies puffing for wind, they say they scorn him.
Amp. The poison of their scorn infects not him;
He wants no help. See where he breathless lies:
Brother, to what place have you borne his body?
Andel. I bear it? I touched it not.
Amp. Nor I: a leaden slumber pressed mine eyes.
Shad. Whether it were lead or latten[381] that hasped down those winking casements, I know not, but I found you both snorting.
Amp. And in that sleep, methought, I heard the tunes
Of sullen passions apt for funerals,
And saw my father’s lifeless body borne
By Satyrs: O I fear that deity
Hath stolen him hence!—that snudge, his destiny.