Although we hide our sinnes from mortall men,
Whose glasse of knowledge is the face of man,
The eye of heaven beholdes our wickednesse,
And will no doubt revenge the innocent,
_Rach_. Ah, do not so disconsolate your selfe,
Nor adde new streames of sorrow to your griefe,
Which like a spring tide over-swels the bankes,
Least you do make an inundation
And so be borne away with swiftest tides
Of ugly feare and strong dispairing thoughts.
I am your sister; though a silly Maide,
Ile be your true and faithfull comforter.
_Mer_. _Rachell_, I see thy love is infinite,
And sorrow hath so borne my thoughts away,
That I had almost quite forgot my selfe.
Helpe me, deare sister, to convey from hence
The spectacle of inhumanitie.
_Rach_. Whether would you convey this lumpe of dust
Untimely murthered by your lucklesse hand?
_Mer_. To the lowe roome, where we will cover it,
With Fagots, till the evening doe approche:
In the meane time I will bethinke my selfe,
How I may best convey it foorth of doores;
For if we keepe it longer in the house,
The savour will be felt throughout the streete,
Which will betray us to destruction.
Pages:
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
57