Fran. How? where?


Giov. Is there; no, yonder: indeed, sir, I 'll not tell you,
For I shall make you weep.


Fran. Is dead?


Giov. Do not blame me now,
I did not tell you so.


Lodo. She 's dead, my lord.


Fran. Dead!


Mont. Bless'd lady, thou art now above thy woes!
Will 't please your lordships to withdraw a little?


Giov. What do the dead do, uncle? do they eat,
Hear music, go a-hunting, and be merry,
As we that live?