Tyr. How dar'st thou be so near, when we have threaten'd
Death to thy fellow? Have we lost our power,
Or thou thy fear? Leave us in time of grace:
'Twill be too late anon.
Mem. I think 'tis so with thee already. [Aside.
Tyr. Dead! And I so healthful!
There's no equality in this. Stay!
Mem. Sir!
Tyr. Where is that fellow brought the first report to us?
Mem. He waits without.
Tyr. I charge thee give command,
That he be executed speedily,
As thou'lt stand firm thyself.
Mem. Now, by my faith,
His tongue has help'd his neck to a sweet bargain.
[Exit Memphonius.
Tyr. Her own fair hand so cruel! Did she choose
Destruction before me? was I no better?
How much am I exalted to my face,
And when I would be grac'd, how little worthy!
There's few kings know how rich they are in goodness,
Or what estate they have in grace and virtue:
There is so much deceit in glosers' tongues,
The truth is taken from us; we know nothing
But what is for their purpose. That's our stint;
We are allow'd no more. O wretched greatness!
I'll cause a sessions for my flatterers,
And have them all hang'd up. 'Tis done too late.
O, she's destroy'd, married to death and silence,
Which nothing can divorce—riches nor laws,
Nor all the violence that this frame can raise.
I've lost the comfort of her sight for ever,
I cannot call this life that flames within me,
But everlasting torment lighted up,
To show my soul her beggary. A new joy
Is come to visit me in spite of death!
It takes me of that sudden, I'm asham'd
Of my provision, but a friend will bear. Within there!