The things we do!

Oh my _Palestra_!
_Palestr_. Numnes and feare, hungar and sollitude,
Besydes my casket, my _Scribonia's_ losse,
All these at once afflict mee.
_Scrib_. Notheinge mee
More than _Palestra's_ deathe. Ha, who's that spake?
Suer twas som womans voyce! if my _Palestra_
Only for her sake I coulde wishe to live.
_Pal_. Then lyve, my deere _Scribonia_, synce I am only
Spar'd to partake with thee newe miseryes.
_Scrib_. Scarce can I bee perswaded you are shee:
But, bee yt but her shadowe, give mee leave
For her remembrance to imbrace it thus.
_Palest_. These armes at once locke all my lyvinge hopes
In my restored _Scribonia_.
_Scrib_. Nowe I perceave
My comfort is not meare imaginary
But reall and effectuall. Lyve you then?
_Pal_. To triumphe in your safety.
_Scrib_. Possible
That mongst these desert unfrequented rocks
Thou can imadgine such a thing can be
As that which you call safety?
_Pal_. Yes, _Scribonia_,
And comfort too; for, see, I spy a villadge,
A maner and a fayre built monastery,
Just at the foott of this descendeinge hill.


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