The things we do!

But that weare nothinge to mee
Though he had vowed and sworne to make mee his heyer;
The losse I so lament is a small caskett
Kept by him from my childhood, and packt up
Amongst his treasure; and that perishinge,
I forfett the longe expectation
Ever to knowe my parents, therefore wishe
With it I had i'th sea been buried.
_Enter Scribonia_.
_Scrib_. With perill of oft fallinge and the danger
Of second deathe, having new scapt the fyrst,
I have with feare and terror clim'd these rocks,
And these too past I feare to meete a thyrd.
I spy no howse, no harbor, meete no creature
To point mee to some shelter; therefore heare
Must starve by famine or expire by could.
O'th sea the whystlinge winds still threaten wreckes,
And flyinge nowe for refuge to the lande
Find nought save desolation. Thoughe these three,
Three dreadfull deaths all spare mee, yeat a fowerth,
I cannot shoone [shun] in my _Palestras_ losse,
More[74] deare to mee then all the world besides,
For the best blood of myne runns in her veynes,
This lyfe breath in her bosom.


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