Noe soule long tir'd with famine, whom kind death Has new enfranchisd from the loathed flesh, With happier expedition enters heaven Then mine thy bosome, Bonvill. Let our loves, Like plants that by their cutting downe shoot up, Straiter and taller flourish: we are now Inseperable. Cla. Your good fates, though I Repine not at them, makes my unhappy fortunes Appeare farr more disastrous. Bon.