My sweet magister, not a word; I'll neither drown me in a ford, Nor give my neck such a scope, T'embrace it with a hempen rope; I'll die no way, till nature will me, And death come with his dart, and kill me, If what is pass'd you will conceal, And nothing to the world reveal; Nay, as Quintillian said of yore, I'll strive to kill myself no more.