Hip. Her name, I think, was Bellafront; she’s dead.
Orl. Ha! dead?
Hip. Yes, what of her was left, not worth the keeping, Even in my sight, was thrown into a grave.
Orl. Dead! my last and best peace go with her! I see death’s a good trencherman; he can eat coarse homely meat as well as the daintiest——Is she dead?
Hip. She’s turn’d to earth.
Orl. Would she were turned to Heaven. Umph! Is she dead? I am glad the world has lost one of his idols: no whoremonger will at midnight beat at the doors: in her grave sleep all my shame and her own; and all my sorrows, and all her sins.
Hip. I’m glad you are wax, not marble; you are made
Of man’s best temper; there are now good hopes
That all these heaps of ice about your heart,
By which a father’s love was frozen up,