ou must make good the rest.

_Tam._ How fares my lord?
Takes my love any thing to heart he sayes?

_Mont._ Come, y'are a--

_Tam._ What, my lord?

_Mont._ The plague of Herod
Feast in his rotten entrailes!

_Tam._ Will you wreak
Your angers just cause given by him on me? 140

_Mont._ By him?

_Tam._ By him, my lord. I have admir'd
You could all this time be at concord with him,
That still hath plaid such discords on your honour.

_Mont._ Perhaps tis with some proud string of my wives.

_Tam._ How's that, my lord?

_Mont._ Your tongue will still admire, 145
Till my head be the miracle of the world.

_Tam._ O woe is me! _She seemes to sound._

_Pero._ What does your lordship meane?
Madam, be comforted; my lord but tries you.
Madam! Help, good my lord, are you not mov'd?
Doe your set looks print in your words your thoughts? 150
Sweet lord, cleare up those eyes,
Unbend that masking forehead. Whence is it
You rush upon her with these Irish warres,
More full of sound then hurt? But it is enough;
You have shot home, your words are in her heart; 155
She has not liv'd to beare a triall now.

_Mont._ Look up, my love, and by this kisse receive
My soule amongst thy spirits, for supply
To thine chac'd with my fury.

_Tam._ O, my lord,
I have too long liv'd to heare this from you. 160

_Mont._ 'Twas from my troubled bloud, and not from me.
I know not how I fare; a sudden night
Flowes through my entrailes, and a headlong chaos
Murmurs within me, which I must digest,
And not drowne her in my confusions, 165
That was my lives joy, being best inform'd.
Sweet, you must needs forgive me, that my love
(Like to a fire disdaining his suppression)
Rag'd being discouraged; my whole heart is wounded
When any least thought in you is but touch't, 170
And shall be till I know your former merits,
Your name and memory, altogether crave
In just oblivion their eternall grave;
And then, you must heare from me, there's no meane
In any passion I shall feele for you. 175
Love is a rasor,