Since you have shore
[332] With shears his thread of silk.
Tongue, not a word:
Come, trusty sword;
[335] Come, blade, my breast imbrue: [Stabs herself.
And, farewell, friends;
Thus Thisby ends:
Adieu, adieu, adieu. [Dies.
The. Moonshine and Lion are left to bury the dead.
340 Dem. Ay, and Wall too.