2d Sol. Lanthorns and a pickaxe?
Does he mean to bury himself alive too?
Tyr. Death nor the marble prison my love sleeps in,
Shall keep her body lock'd up from mine arms,
I must not be so cosen'd; though her life
Was like a widow's state, made o'er in policy
To defeat me and my too confident heart;
'Twas a most cruel wisdom to herself,
As much to me that lov'd her. What, return'd?
Enter 1st Soldier.
1st Sol. There be the keys, my lord.
Tyr. I thank thy speed;
Here comes the rest full-furnish'd. Follow me,
And wealth shall follow you.
Enter 2d and 3d Soldiers.
1st Sol. Wealth! by this light,
We go to rob a church; I hold my life
The money will ne'er thrive; that's a sure saw:
What's got from grace, is ever spent in law.
2d Sol. What strange fits grow upon him here a-late!
His soul has got a very dreadful leader.
What should he make in the cathedral now,
The hour so deep in night? all his intents
Are contrary to man in spirit or blood.
He, waxes heavy in his noble mind;
His moods are such they cannot bear the weight,
Nor will not long, if there be truth in whispers?
The honourable father of the state,
Noble Helvetius, all the lords agree
By some close policy shortly to set free. [Exeunt.