I did not tell you so.

_Lodovico_. She's dead, my lord.

_Francisco_. Dead!

_Monticelso_. Blest lady, thou art now above thy woes!

* * * * *

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

_Francisco_. No, coz; they sleep.

_Giovanni_. Lord, Lord, that I were dead!
I have not slept these six nights.--When do they wake?

_Francisco_. When God shall please.

_Giovanni_. Good God, let her sleep ever!
For I have known her wake an hundred nights
When all the pillow where she laid her head
Was brine-wet with her tears. I am to complain to you, sir;
I'll tell you how they have used her now she's dead:
They wrapped her in a cruel fold of lead,
And would not let me kiss her.

_Francisco_. Thou didst love her.