I'le love those pieces you have cut away,
Better than those that grow: and kiss these limbs,
Because you made 'em so.

_Phi_. Fearest thou not death?
Can boys contemn that?

_Bell_. Oh, what boy is he
Can be content to live to be a man
That sees the best of men thus passionate, thus
without reason?

_Phi_. Oh, but thou dost not know what 'tis to die.

_Bell_. Yes, I do know my Lord;
'Tis less than to be born; a lasting sleep,
A quiet resting from all jealousie;
A thing we all pursue; I know besides,
It is but giving over of a game that must be lost.

_Phi_. But there are pains, false boy,
For perjur'd souls; think but on these, and then
Thy heart will melt, and thou wilt utter all.

_Bell_. May they fall all upon me whilst I live,
If I be perjur'd, or have ever thought
Of that you charge me with; if I be false,
Send me to suffer in those punishments you speak of;
kill me.