If thy common sence Be not yet parted from thee, understand I doe not misse thee dyinge because once I loved thee dearlye; and collect by that There is no Devyll in me nor in hell That could have flesht me to this violent deathe

All my cares and feares Thou hast dyspeyrct for ever; from hys deathe My future honors take a glorious byrthe.

Howe taks hys majestye the empresse deathe?

Then ere he loved her liveinge (yet that love Outwentt all dottage in th'extreamytie): He will not give her buryall, but in's armes Carryes her up & downe, courts, kysses, toys, Mournes when she maks no answere; often faynes To understande her sylence; sweares that deathe Cannot, nay darre not, hurte suche excellence.

And so it had, But that my Fortune knewe my deathe woulde be Toe greate a blessinge for me & remove The object of her envye past her spleene.

My syster's deathe Hath, like the moone in opposytion, Put out the eie of heaven.

Yes, styll and styll; Nay with such vyolence love seemes to growe And flourishe most in deathe.

Pardon me, deathe, That I thys once ryffell thy treasurye.

Theres nothynge heare conceald but deathe and colde And emptye sylence, no companyon.

Deathe coopeld to my bossome, to my chayre?

The wantonst thought in prynces made me looke Beyond the hower of deathe.

Why, mother, you have seene the course of thyngs, The smale assurance and the certayne deathe, The meare deceytfull scope and shadowed ruyns That are most conynglie knytt up in pleasures; And are you styll to learne or will you trust A lovelye face with all your good beleife?

Yes, to satisfye The wronge he did in plottinge of your deathe.

Perhapps thys present mynute he reveales My systers whoredome, or to take away All feare of my revendge he now contryves That my sadd deathe may fynishe my disgrace.

If thy comon sence Be not yet parted from thee, understande I doe not cursse[100] thee dyinge, because once I loved thee dearlye; & collect by that There is no devyll in me nor in hell That could have flesht me to thys violent deathe, Hadst thou beene false to all the worlde but me.

Nowe to fayle Is past all revelatyon: suer as deathe Our whole plott is reveeld.

Fond woman, doe not trust me, there is deathe And undyssembld ruyne in my words.

And with deathe.

For hys deathe I murderd theise: thys temporyzinge knave Buryed him last nyght; all I can aleadge Agaynst hym is concealment of the murther.

Here in my safe possessyon, thys is it, Which at her deathe, lodgd underneathe her tonge, I found by carefull searche.

Butt I confes it, & the sorcerrer That made it I did murder conynglye, And at her deathe had I recompast it, I had beene kynge of Fraunce.

Tys toe late Nowe to denye it: deathe never bryngs hys smarte

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.

Notheinge mee More than Palestra's deathe.

And o'err the lyfeless claie deathe's ensygns stream'dd arownde.