And six or seven winters more respect
Than a perpetual honour. Darest thou die?
[75] The sense of death is most in apprehension;
And the poor beetle, that we tread upon,
In corporal sufferance finds a pang as great
As when a giant dies.
Claud.
Why give you me this shame?
Think you I [can a resolution fetch]
80 From flowery [tenderness]? If I must die,