F. Madam Death!
D. Go!—and the Devil go with you! I shall come fast enough when you don’t want me.
F. As if I were not immortal!
D. Immortal? Past is already the thousandth year since the days of the immortals were ended.
F. Why, madam, you are talking in the manner of Petrarch, as though you were a lyric poet of the sixteenth—or the nineteenth century.
D. I am very fond of Petrarch’s rhymes, because there is my Triumph among them, and the rest of them are nearly all about me too. But, anyway, get out of my sight at once.
F. Come—for the love you bear to the seven deadly sins, stop a little, and look at me.
D. I am looking at you.
F. Don’t you know me?
D. You ought to know that my sight is not good, and that I cannot use spectacles, because the English do not make any that would serve me—and even though they made them, I have no nose to put them on.