Omitting Suffolk's exile, my soul's treasure? Why only, Suffolk, mourn I not for thee, 383 And with the southern clouds contend in tears, Theirs for the earth's increase, mine for my sorrows?-
Now get thee hence: the king, thou know'st, is coming;
If thou be found by me, thou art but dead.
Suf. If I depart from thee, I cannot live;
And in thy sight to die, what were it else
But like a pleasant slumber in thy lap?
[Here could I breathe my soul into the air,
As mild and gentle as the cradle-babe
Dying with mother's dug between its lips:
Where, from thy sight, I should be raging-
mad
And cry out for thee to close up mine eyes,
To have thee with thy lips to stop my mouth;
So shouldst thou either turn my flying soul,
Or I should breathe it so into thy body,
And then it liv'd' in sweet Elysium.]
To die by thee were but to die in jest;
From thee to die were torture more than
death:
O, let me stay, befall what may befall!