Gov. Yes, my lord:
I would not trust but few, an' I could choose.
Tyr. Let but thy art hide death upon her face,
That now looks fearfully on us, and strive
To give our eye delight in that pale part,
Which draws so many pities from these springs,
And thy reward for't shall outlast thy end,
And reach to thy friend's fortunes and his friend.
Gov. Say you so, my lord? I'll work out my heart then,
But I'll show art enough.
Tyr. About it, then:
I never wish'd so seriously for health
After long sickness.
Gov. [Aside.] A religious trembling shakes me by the hand,
And bids me put by such unhallow'd business,
But revenge calls for't, and it must go forward,
'Tis time the spirit of my love took rest;
Poor soul! 'tis weary, much abus'd and toil'd.
[Govianus paints the face of the body.
Tyr. Could I now send for one to renew heat
Within her bosom, that were a fine workman!
I should but too much love him; but, alas!
'Tis as impossible for living fire to take
Hold there, as for dead ashes to burn back again
Into those hard, tough bodies, whence they tell.
Life is removed from her now, as the warmth
Of the bright sun from us, when it makes winter,
And kills with unkind coldness; so is't yonder.
An everlasting frost hangs now upon her,
And in such a season men will force
A heat into their bloods with exercise,
In spite of extreme weather. So shall we
By art force beauty on yon lady's face,
Though death sit frowning on't a storm of hail,
To beat it off—our pleasure shall prevail.
Gov. My lord!
Tyr. Hast done so soon?
Gov. That's as your grace
Gives approbation.