_Clod._ You out-doe me Sir. [_Exeunt._
_Actus Quartus. Scena Prima._
_Enter_ Duarte, Doctor.
_Dua._ You have bestow'd on me a second life,
For which I live your creature, and have better'd
What nature fram'd unperfect, my first being
Insolent pride made monstrous; but this later
In learning me to know my self, hath taught me
Not to wrong others.
_Doct._ Then we live indeed,
When we can goe to rest without alarm
Given every minute to a guilt-sick conscience
To keep us waking, and rise in the morning
Secure in being innocent: but when
In the remembrance of our worser actions
We ever bear about us whips and furies,
To make the day a night of sorrow to us,
Even life's a burthen.
_Dua._ I have found and felt it;
But will endeavour having first made peace
With those intestine enemies my rude passions,
To be so with man-kind: but worthy Doctor,
Pray if you can resolve me; was the Gentleman
That left me dead, ere brought unto his tryal?
_Doct._ Not known, nor apprehended.
_Dua._ That's my grief.
_Doct._ Why, do you wish he had been punished?
_Dua._ No,
The stream of my swoln sorrow runs not that way:
For could I find him, as I vow to Heaven
It shall be my first care to seek him out,
I would with thanks acknowledge that his sword,
In opening my veins, which proud bloud poison'd,
Gave the first symptoms of true health.
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