ll, daylight.
And, O contemptible physic! that dost take
So long a study, only to preserve
So short a life, I take my leave of thee. [Showing the pistols.
These are two cupping-glasses, that shall draw
All my infected blood out. Are you ready?

Both. Ready.

Flam. Whither shall I go now? O Lucian, thy ridiculous purgatory! to
find Alexander the Great cobbling shoes, Pompey tagging points, and
Julius Caesar making hair-buttons, Hannibal selling blacking, and
Augustus crying garlic, Charlemagne selling lists by the dozen, and
King Pepin crying apples in a cart drawn with one horse!
Whether I resolve to fire, earth, water, air,
Or all the elements by scruples, I know not,
Nor greatly care.--Shoot! shoot!
Of all deaths, the violent death is best;
For from ourselves it steals ourselves so fast,
The pain, once apprehended, is quite past.
[They shoot, and run to him, and tread upon him.

Vit. What, are you dropped?

Flam. I am mix'd with earth already: as you are noble,
Perform your vows, and bravely follow me.

Vit. Whither? to hell?

Zan. To most assur'd damnation?

Vit. Oh, thou most cursed devil!

Zan. Thou art caught----

Vit. In thine own engine. I tread the fire out
That would have been my ruin.

Flam. Will you be perjured? what a religious oath was Styx, that the
gods never durst swear by, and violate! Oh, that we had such an oath
to minister, and to be so well kept in our courts of justice!

Vit. Think whither thou art going.

Zan. And remember
What villainies thou hast acted.

Vit. This thy death
Shall make me, like a blazing ominous star,
Look up and tremble.

Flam. Oh, I am caught with a spring!

Vit. You see the fox comes many times short home;
'Tis here prov'd true.

Flam. Kill'd with a couple of braches!

Vit. No fitter offing for the infernal furies,
Than one in whom they reign'd while he was living.

Flam. Oh, the way 's dark and horrid! I cannot see:
Shall I have no company?

Vit. Oh, yes, thy sins
Do run before thee to fetch fire from hell,
To light thee thither.

Flam. Oh, I smell soot,
Most stinking soot! the chimney 's afire:
My liver 's parboil'd, like Scotch holly-bread;
There 's a plumber laying pipes in my guts, it scalds.
Wilt thou outlive me?

Zan. Yes, and drive a stake
Through