[_Holds up his ball._
_Dor._ He looks uneasy at his future journey, [_Aside._
And wishes his boots off again, for fear
Of a bad road, and a worse inn at night.
Go to bed, fool, and take secure repose,
For thou shalt wake no more. [SEBASTIAN _comes up to draw._
_M. Mol._ [_To Ben._] Mark him, who now approaches to the lottery:
He looks secure of death, superior greatness,
Like Jove, when he made Fate, and said, Thou art
The slave of my creation.--I admire him.
_Bend._ He looks as man was made; with face erect,
That scorns his brittle corpse, and seems ashamed
He's not all spirit; his eyes, with a dumb pride,
Accusing fortune that he fell not warm;
Yet now disdains to live. [SEBAST. _draws a black._
_M. Mol._ He has his wish;
And I have failed of mine.
_Dor._ Robbed of my vengeance, by a trivial chance! [_Aside._
Fine work above, that their anointed care
Should die such little death! or did his genius
Know mine the stronger daemon, feared the grapple,
And looking round him, found this nook of fate,
To skulk behind my sword?--Shall I discover him?--
Still he would not die mine; no thanks to my
Revenge; reserved but to more royal shambles.
'Twere base, too, and below those vulgar souls,
That shared his danger, yet not one disclosed him,
But, struck with reverence, kept an awful silence.
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