Flam. Would’st have me die, as I was born, in whining?
Gasp. Recommend yourself to Heaven.
Flam. No, I will carry mine own commendations thither.
Lod. Oh! could I kill you forty times a-day,
And use ‘t four years together, ’twere too little:
Nought grieves, but that you are too few to feed
The famine of our vengeance. What do’st think on?
Flam. Nothing; of nothing: leave thy idle questions—
I am i’ th’ way to study a long silence.
To prate were idle: I remember nothing;