’Tis still a dream, or else such stuff as madmen
Tongue, and brain not; either both or nothing,
Or senseless speaking, or a speaking such
As sense cannot untie. Be what it is,
The action of my life is like it, which
I’ll keep, if but for sympathy.
Enter Gaoler.
GAOLER.
Come, sir, are you ready for death?
POSTHUMUS.
Over-roasted rather; ready long ago.
GAOLER.
Hanging is the word, sir; if you be ready for that, you are well cook’d.
POSTHUMUS.
So, if I prove a good repast to the spectators, the dish pays the shot.
GAOLER.
A heavy reckoning for you, sir. But the comfort is, you shall be called to no more payments, fear no more tavern bills, which are often the sadness of parting, as the procuring of mirth. You come in faint for want of meat, depart reeling with too much drink; sorry that you have paid too much, and sorry that you are paid too much; purse and brain both empty; the brain the heavier for being too light, the purse too light, being drawn of heaviness. O, of this contradiction you shall now be quit. O, the charity of a penny cord! It sums up thousands in a trice. You have no true debitor and creditor but it; of what’s past, is, and to come, the discharge. Your neck, sir, is pen, book, and counters; so the acquittance follows.
POSTHUMUS.
I am merrier to die than thou art to live.
GAOLER.
Indeed, sir, he that sleeps feels not the toothache. But a man that were to sleep your sleep, and a hangman to help him to bed, I think he would change places with his officer; for look you, sir, you know not which way you shall go.
POSTHUMUS.
Yes indeed do I, fellow.