[Aside to Zanche.] Cry out for help! Makes us forsake that which was made for man, The world, to sink to that was made for devils, Eternal darkness!
Zan. Help, help!
Flam. I 'll stop your throat With winter plums.
Vit. I pray thee yet remember, Millions are now in graves, which at last day Like mandrakes shall rise shrieking.
Flam. Leave your prating, For these are but grammatical laments, Feminine arguments: and they move me, As some in pulpits move their auditory, More with their exclamation than sense Of reason, or sound doctrine.
Zan. [Aside.] Gentle madam, Seem to consent, only persuade him to teach The way to death; let him die first.
Vit. 'Tis good, I apprehend it.-- To kill one's self is meat that we must take Like pills, not chew'd, but quickly swallow it; The smart o' th' wound, or weakness of the hand, May else bring treble torments.
Flam. I have held it A wretched and most miserable life, Which is not able to die.
Vit. Oh, but frailty! Yet I am now resolv'd; farewell, affliction! Behold, Brachiano, I that while you liv'd Did make a flaming altar of my heart To sacrifice unto you, now am ready To sacrifice heart and all. Farewell, Zanche!
Zan. How, madam! do you think that I 'll outlive you; Especially when my best self, Flamineo, Goes the same voyage?
Flam. O most loved Moor!
Zan. Only, by all my love, let me entreat you, Since it is most necessary one of us Do violence on ourselves, let you or I Be her sad taster, teach her how to die.
Flam. Thou dost instruct me nobly; take these pistols, Because my hand is stain'd with blood already: Two of these you shall level at my breast, The other 'gainst your own, and so we 'll die Most equally contented: but first swear Not to outlive me.
Vit. and Zan. Most religiously.
Flam. Then here 's an end of me; farewell, daylight. And, O contemptible physic! that dost take So long a study, only to preserve So short a life, I take my leave of thee. [Showing the pistols. These are two cupping-glasses, that shall draw All my infected blood out. Are you ready?
Both. Ready.
Flam. Whither shall I go now? O Lucian, thy ridiculous purgatory! to find Alexander the Great cobbling shoes, Pompey tagging points, and Julius Cæsar making hair-buttons, Hannibal selling blacking, and Augustus crying garlic, Charlemagne selling lists by the dozen, and King Pepin crying apples in a cart drawn with one horse! Whether I resolve to fire, earth, water, air, Or all the elements by scruples, I know not, Nor greatly care.--Shoot! shoot! Of all deaths, the violent death is best; For from ourselves it steals ourselves so fast, The pain, once apprehended, is quite past. [They shoot, and run to him, and tread upon him.
Vit. What, are you dropped?
Flam. I am mix'd with earth already: as you are noble, Perform your vows, and bravely follow me.
Vit. Whither? to hell?
Zan. To most assur'd damnation?
Vit. Oh, thou most cursed devil!
Zan. Thou art caught----
Vit. In thine own engine. I tread the fire out That would have been my ruin.
Flam. Will you be perjured? what a religious oath was Styx, that the gods never durst swear by, and violate! Oh, that we had such an oath to minister, and to be so well kept in our courts of justice!
Vit. Think whither thou art going.
Zan. And remember What villainies thou hast acted.
Vit. This thy death Shall make me, like a blazing ominous star, Look up and tremble.
Flam. Oh, I am caught with a spring!
Vit. You see the fox comes many times short home; 'Tis here prov'd true.
Flam. Kill'd with a couple of braches!
Vit. No fitter offing for the infernal furies, Than one in whom they reign'd while he was living.
Flam. Oh, the way 's dark and horrid! I cannot see: Shall I have no company?
Vit.