 | St. Patrick For Ireland |  |
Act. IV.
Enter Milcho and Servant.Mil.
Who's with the Queene, my prisoner?
Ser.
The Prince Conallus came to visit her.
Exit Ser.
Mil.
So: bid my daughter Emeria come hither,
She's come verie melancholy from the Court,
Under pretence to wait upon the Queene here.
Enter Emeria.
Still sad; come, I must have your face looke otherwise,
Dresse it in smiles: I hope you put not on
This sorrow for the Queene, she is a traytor
To the King, and to the gods.
Em.
A traytor, Sir!
Oh doe not say so; 'tis, I heare, for nothing,
But looking on the stranger Patrick with
Some pitie.
Mil.
It will not run
Out of my thought; but this is the same Patrick
That was my slave once, he was a Brittan too:
I know not how, he found some treasure then
To buy his libertie: were he agen
My slave, no gold should buy him from my swine,
Whose once companion he was: Emeria,
D'yee heare? Conallus, the young Prince is come
To see his mother; use him gently, girle:
Come, I have heard he does affect thee, ha?
Em.
His brother Coribreus
Is neerer to that title, and he sayes
He loves me.
Mil.
Does he so? then love him best,
Eme.
Imagine I had promisd, Sir, my heart
To his younger brother.
Mil.
Break a thousand promises,
And hazard breaking of thy heart too wench,
To be but one degree neerer a Queene;
It does exalt my heart, spread all thy charmes
Of wit and language, when he courts thee girle:
Smile, kisse, or any thing, that may endeere
Him and so great a fortune: I must leave thee,
But wonot be long absent.
Ser.
Sir, the Bard does presse to see the Queene.
Mil.
He must not see her,
His insolence I'll punish; yet admit him hither,
His pleasant nature may raise mirth
In my sad daughter.
Enter Bard.
Welcome, merry Bard.
Bar.
I care not whither I be or no: the Queene
I come to see.
Mil.
Shee's private with the Prince:
Come hither, do'st thou see that piece of sullennesse,
That phlegmatick foolish thing.
Bar.
And like the father.
Mil.
Make her merry, and I'll give thee
Gold joy to purchase a new harp, here's some
In earnest; thou hast wanton pretty songs
To stirre the merry thoughts of maids: I'me gone
To give thee opportunity, my presence
May spoile the working of thy mirth, that done
Sha't speak with the Queene too.
Exit.
Bar.
Fare you well Sir, and take a knave
Along we'e. Here's a rose.
Em.
I have no cause of mirth, Bard.
Ba.
What d'yee think of me?
Em.
Think of thee, Bard; I think th'art honest, and canst shew
a pleasant face sometimes, without an over joy within, but 'tis thy
office.
Ba.
I know why you are so melancholy.
Em.
Prethee why do'st think, Bard?
Ba.
You want a man.
Em.
Why, thou art one?
Ba.
That's more than you know.
Sings.
'Tis long of men that maids are sad;
Come then, and sweetly kisse them,
Their lips invite, you will be mad
To come too late and misse them.
In their cheeks, are full-blowne roses
To make garlands, to make posies:
He that desires to be a father,
Let him make haste before they fall, and gather:
You stay too long, and do them wrong:
If men would virgins strive to please,
No maid this yeere should dye o'th greene disease.
What, are you merrie yet?Come then, and sweetly kisse them,
Their lips invite, you will be mad
To come too late and misse them.
In their cheeks, are full-blowne roses
To make garlands, to make posies:
He that desires to be a father,
Let him make haste before they fall, and gather:
You stay too long, and do them wrong:
If men would virgins strive to please,
No maid this yeere should dye o'th greene disease.
Em.
I am so far
From being rais'd to mirth, that I encline
To anger.
Ba.
Come, I'll fit you with a song,
A lamentable ballad, of one lost
Her maiden-head, and would needs have it cri'd,
With all the marks, in hope to ha't agen.
Em.
You were not sent to abuse me?
Ba.
A daintie aire too, I'll but tune my instrument.
Em.
No more, or I'll complaine: sure hee knowes nothing of
my dishonour. How mine owne thoughts fright me?
Ba.
Now you shall heare the dittie.
Em.
Hence, foolish Bard.
Sings.
A poore wench was sighing, and weeping amaine,
And faine would she have her virginitie againe,
Lost she knew not how; in her sleep (as she said)
She went to bed pure, but she rise not a maid:
She made fast the doore,
She was certaine before,
She laid her selfe downe in the bed:
But when she awaked, the truth is stark-naked,
Oh she mist her maiden-head.
Enter Conallus.
Ha, the young Prince, I'll tarrie no longer w'ee.
Now to the Queen.
Exit.
Con.
Emeria, prethee doe not hide thy face
From me, 'tis more than common sorrow makes
Thee look thus: If the Queenes mis-fortunes have
Darken'd thy face, I suffer too in that.
If for thy selfe thou weep'st, my almost ebbing
Griefe thou wilt enforce back, and beget
New seas, in which, made high by one strong sigh
Of thine, I meet a watry sepulcher.
My mothers fate commands my griefe, but thine
A greater suffering, since our hearts are one,
And there wants nothing, but a ceremony
To justifie it to the world.
Em.
Call back
Your promises, my Lord, they were ill plac'd
On me, for I have nothing to deserve'em.
Con.
If thou be'st constant to thy selfe, and art
Emeria still—
Em.
That word hath wounded me.
Con.
Why, art not thou thy selfe?
Em.
I have the shape still,
But not the inward part.
Con.
Am I so miserable,
To have my faith suspected, for I dare not
Think thou canst sin by any change: What act
Poyson'd thy pure soule with suggestion
Of my revolt? Apostasie I'll call it,
For next our gods, thou art my happinesse.
Em.
Now, my deere Lord, and let mee adde thus much
In my owne part, I never lov'd you better;
Never with more religious thoughts and honour
Look'd on you; my heart never made a vow
So blessed in my hopes, as that I gave you,
And I suspect not yours.
Con.
What then can make thee,
My Emeria, lesse; or me? Thou do'st affright—
Em.
Yes, I am lesse, and have that taken from me
Hath almost left me nothing, or if any,
So much unworthy you, that you would curse me,
Should I betray you to receive Emeria.
Con.
Doe not destroy me so, be plaine.
Em.
Then thus—
But if I drop a teare or two, pray pardon me:
Did not the story touch my selfe, I should
Weep for it in another; you did promise
To marrie me, my Lord.
Con.
I did, and will.
Em.
Alas, I have lost.
Con.
What?
Em.
The portion that I promis'd to bring with me.
Con.
Do I value thy wealth?
Em.
Oh, but the treasure
I lost, you wil expect, and scorne me ever,
Because you have it not; yet heaven is witnesse
'Tis not my fault, a thiefe did force it from me,
Oh my deere Lord.
Con.
I know not what to feare,
Speake plainer yet.
Em.
You'l say I am too loud,
When I but whisper, Sir. I am no virgin.
Ha!
Em.
I knew 'twould fright you; but by all those teares,
The poore Lamb, made a prey to the fierce wolfe,
Had not more innocence, or lesse consent
To be devoured, than I to lose mine honour.
Con.
Why, wert thou ravished?
Em.
You have named it, Sir.
Con.
The villaine, name the villaine, sweet Emeria,
That I may send his leprous soule to hell for't,
And when he hath confest the monstrous sin,
I'll think thee still a virgin, and thou art so:
Confirme thy pietie by naming him.
Em.
It will enlarge but your vexation, Sir,
That he's above your anger and revenge;
For he did call himselfe a god that did it.
Con.
The Devill he was; Oh do not wrack, Emeria,
The heart that honours thee; mock me not, I prethee,
With calling him a god, it was a furie,
The master fiend of darknesse, and as hot
As hell could make him, that would ravish thee.
Em.
If you do think I ever lov'd you, Sir,
Or have a soule after my bodies rape,
He nam'd himselfe a god, great Ceancrochius,
To whom I owe my shame and transformation.
Con.
Oh, I am lost in miserie and amazement
Exit.
Em.
So; I did see before it would afflict him:
But having given these reasons to Conallus,
For our divorce, I have provided how
To finish all disgraces by my death.
Enter Archimagus.
Come, cure of my dishonour, and with bloud
Wash off my staine. Ha, Archimagus!
Arc.
Madam.
Em.
What newes with our great Priest.
Arc.
I come to tell you, heavenly Ceancrochius,
Of whom I had this day a happie vision,
Is pleas'd agen to visit you, and commanded
Eme.
I begin to finde
Some Magicall imposture. Does he know it?
Arc.
I leave to say, how much you are his favorite,
Be wise, and humble for so great a blessing.
Eme.
This does increase my feares, I've been betraid,
I'll live a little longer then; great Priest
My words are poore to make acknowledgement
For so divine a favour: But I shall
Humbly expect, and hold my selfe agen
Blest in his presence.
Enter Corybreus as before habited.
Arc.
Hee's here Emeria;
Never was virgin so much honoured.
Exit.
Cor.
How is it with my sweet Emeria?
Eme.
That question would become an ignorant Mortall,
Whose sense would be inform'd; not Ceancrochius
Whose eye at once can see the soule of all things.
Cor.
I do not ask,
To make thee think I doubt, but to maintain
That forme, which men familiar to such faire ones use
When they converse: For I would have my language
Soft as a lovers.
Eme.
You are still gracious.
Cor.
This temper is becoming, and thou dost
Now appeare worthy of our loves and presence.
I knew when thy wise soule examin'd what
It was to be the darling to a god,
Thou would'st compose thy gestures, and resigne
Thy selfe to our great will: Which we accept
And pardon thy first frailty; 'tis in us
Emeria to translate thee hence to heaven,
Without thy bodies separation,
I'th twinckling of an eye, but thou sha't live
Here to convince erring mortality,
That gods do visit such religious votaries
In humane forme; and thus salute 'em.
And thus be answered, with a resolute heart.
Stabs him.
Cor.
Oh thou hast murder'd me, Strumpet, hold.
Eme.
Sure if you be a god, you are above
These wounds: If man thou hast deserv'd to bleed
For thy impiety.
Cor.
My blood is punish'd,
A curse upon thy hand, I am no god;
I am the Prince, see Corybreus.
Em.
Ha? the Prince? were you my ravisher my Lord?
I have done a justice to the gods in this
And my owne honour. Thou lost thing to goodnesse;
It was a glorious wound, and I am proude
To be the gods revenger.
Cor.
Help, Oh I am lost.
He dies.
Em.
Call on the furies they did help thy sinne,
And will transport thy soule on their black wings
To hell, Prince; and the gods can do no lesse,
Than in reward to draw thy purple streame up,
Shed in their cause, and place it a portent
In heaven, to affright such foule lascivious Princes.
I will live now, this story shall not fall so,
And yet I must not stay here, now Conallus
I have done some revenge for thee in this,
Yet all this wonot help me to my owne
Agen; my honour of a virgin never will
Returne, I live and move, but wanting thee,
At best I'me but a walking miserie.
Exit.
Enter Rodament reading.
Rod.
My royall love, my Lady, and faire Misteries,
Such love as mine, was never read in histories.
There's love, and love, good.
The poyson to my heart was not so cruell.
As that I cannot hang thee, how's that, hang the Queene?
The poyson to my heart was not so cruell,
As that I cannot hang thee, my rich jewell.
Within my heart. Oh there's hang and jewell, and heart, and heart,
good agen.
And dare for thy sweet sake, go hang my selfe.
What though I am no Lord, yet I am loyall,
There's a gingle upon the letter, to shew if she will
Give me but an inch, I'll take an ell; Lord and loyall, and though
no prince I am thy servant royall. There's no figure in that, yes
impossibility, servant and royall.
With Noverint universi per presentes.
there's to shew I am a Linguist, with a rumme in the rime consisting
of two severall languages, beside love and love, thy jeat and
alablaster face. I eat because it drawes the straw of my heart, and
alablaster, because there is some white in her face,
My love and hunger up to eat stone walls.
But so I may bite of her nose, if her face be alablaster; but she is in
prison, there it holds, and I may do her service to break prison for
her any way. Well, here's enough at a time, if she like this, I have
an ambling muse that shall be at her service: But what stumbling
block is cast in my way? This is no place to sleepe in, I take it in a
story under a trundlebed: I have seene these clothes afore now, the
tailor tooke measure for one of our gods that made 'em; de'e heare
freind, ha! 'tis the Prince Corybreus, dead, kild, Ha? my Lord hee's
speechlesse. What were I best to doe? in stead of searching the
wound i'll first search his pockets: What's here? a bracelet, a
pretty toy, I'll give it the Queene, but if I be found here alone I
may be found necessary to his death. Ha, what shall I do?
Hides himselfe.
Enter Milcho and servant.
Mil.
My daughter gone abroad without a servant?
Ser.
I offer'd my attendance.
Mil.
Ha! what's here, one murder'd? 'tis the Prince,
Slaine in my house, confusion; Look about,
Search for the traitour I am undone for ever.
The Prince! I'll take my oath I see him not enter.
Why thus disguis'd?
Mil.
I tremble to look on him, seek everie where.
Ser.
I gave accesse to none but Rodamant, and he is gone.
Mil.
What shall we doe? remove the murder'd body,
And on thy life be silent, we are lost else.
Attend without, and give accesse to none,
Till I have thought some way through this affliction.
Did my stars owe me this? oh, I could curse 'em,
And from my vex'd heart exhale a vapour
Of execrations, that should blast the day,
And darken all the world. The Prince murder'd
In my house, and the Traytor not discovered.
Enter Servant.
Ser.
One, Sir, with a letter.
Mil.
Let him carrie it back, where's the young Prince, Conallus?
Ser.
Gone long since, Sir.
Mil.
I'll lay the murder upon him,
It will be thought ambition, or upon the Queene.
Ser.
Sir, one waits
With a Letter from the King.
Mil.
The King? that name
Shoots horrour through me now, who is the messenger?
Ser.
A stranger both in habit and in person:
This is he, Sir.
Enter Patrick.
Mil.
Ha.
Pat.
The King salutes you,
My Lord, this paper speaks his royall pleasure.
You have forgot me, Sir; but I have beene more
Familiar to your knowledge: Is there nothing
Within my face, that doth resemble once
A slave you had?
Mil.
Ha, is your name Patrick?
Pat.
It is, my Lord: I made my humble suit
Toth' King, that by his favour I might visit you;
And though I have not now that servile tye,
It will not shame me to professe I owe
Obey your just commands.
Mil.
He writ to me,
That I should try my art, and by some stratagem
Discharge his life; I'll do't, but all this wonot
Quit the suspition of the Princes death:
What if I lay the murder to his charge?
I can sweare any thing. But if he come off,
My head must answer; no trick in my braine?
Y'are welcome; the King writes you have desires
To see the Queene, you shall entreat her presence.
Pat.
The King has honour'd me.
Mil.
You have deserv'd it.
And I doe count it happinesse to receive
Whom he hath grac'd; but the remembrance
Of what you were, addes to the entertainment:
My old acquaintance, Patrick.
Pat.
You are noble.
Enter Queene and Bard.
Mil.
The Queene? welcome agen, come hither, sirra.
Pat.
Madam; I joy to see you, and present
My humble dutie: Heaven hath heard my prayers,
I hope, and if you still preserve that goodnesse,
That did so late, and sweetly shine upon you,
I may not be unwelcome, since there is
Something behind, which I am trusted with,
To make you happier.
Qu.
Holy Patricik, welcome.
Mil.
Obey in everie circumstance: My despaire
Exit Serv.
Shall have revenge wait on it. This is, Madam,
A good man, he was once my slave; let not
That title take thy present freedome of
My house; my fortunes and my fate, I wish,
May have one period with thee, I shall
Attend you agen, I hope we all may live
And dye together yet. My dutie, Madam.
Exit.
Ba,
I doe not like their whispering, there's some mischiefe, hee
Pat.
Doe, honest Bard. Oh Madam, if you knew
The difference betwixt my faith, and your
Religion, the grounds and progresse of
What we professe, the sweetnesse, certaintie,
And full rewards of vertue, you would hazard,
Nay, lose the glorie of ten thousand worlds,
Like this to be a Christian, and be blest
To lay your life downe (but a moment, on
Which our eternitie depends) and through
Torture and seas of bloud contend, to reach
That blessed vision at last, in which
Is all that can be happie, and perfection.
Enter Bard.
Qu.
I have a soule most willing to be taught.
Ba.
Oh Madam, fire, help, we are all lost,
The house is round about on fire, the doores
Are barr'd and lock'd, there is no going forth,
We shall be burnt, and that will spoyle my singing:
My voyce hath been recover'd from a cold;
But fire will spoyle it utterly.
Enter Victor.
Ang. Vict.
Have no dread, holy Patrick, all their malice
Shall never hurt thy person, Heaven doth look
With scorne upon their treacherie, thou art
Reserv'd to make this Nation glorious,
By their conversion to the Christian faith,
Which shall by bloud of many Martyrs grow,
Till it be call'd the Iland of the Saints;
Look up, and see what thou observ'st.
Milcho throwing his treasures into the flames.
Mil.
Patrick, thou art caught, inevitable flames
Must now devoure thee, th'art my slave againe,
There is no hope to scape: How I doe glorie,
That by my policie thou shalt consume,
Though I be made a sacrifice with thee
To our great gods; ha, ha, the Queene: Bard,
You will be exlent rost meat for the Devill.
Heare me.
Mil.
I choose to leap into these fires,
Rather than heare thee preach thy cursed faith.
Y'are sure to follow me, the King will praise
My last act yet; thus I give up my breath,
He burnes himselfe.
And sacrifice you all for his sons death.
Pat.
Oh Tyrant, cruell to thy selfe, but we
Must follow our blest Guide and holy Guardian:
Lead on, good Angell, feare not, vertuous Queene;
A black night may beget a smiling morne,
At worst to dye, 'tis easier than be borne.
Exeunt.
Recorders. The Altar prepar'd with Ferochus and Endarius, as before. King Conallus, Archimagus, Priest, Ethne, Fedella, a sacrifice of Christian bloud.
Arc.
Great Jove and Mars appeased bee
With bloud, which we now offer thee,
Drain'd from a Christians heart, our first
Oblation of that Sect accurst;
And may we to the Altar bring
Patrick, our second offering,
The father of this Tribe, whose blood
Thus shed, will doe this Iland good.
The gods allow what we present;
For see, the holy flame is sent
To mightie Jove and Mars, now bring
Your vocall sacrifice, and sing.
Song at the Altar.
Looke downe, great Jove and God of war,
A new sacrifice is layd
On your Altars, richer far,
Than what in arromatick heaps we paid:
No curled smoake we send,
With perfumes to befriend
The drooping aire, the cloud
We offer is exhal'd from bloud,
More shining than your tapers are,
And everie drop is worth a star.
A new sacrifice is layd
On your Altars, richer far,
Than what in arromatick heaps we paid:
No curled smoake we send,
With perfumes to befriend
The drooping aire, the cloud
We offer is exhal'd from bloud,
More shining than your tapers are,
And everie drop is worth a star.
Of Christians, we that colour could impart,
And with their bloud, supply those crimson streakes
That dresse the skie, when the faire morning breakes.
Enter Rodamant, and whispers the King, who falleth upon the ground.
Con.
Father.
Arc.
The King.
Leo.
Away. Let not my daughters stir from hence:
Is this reward, you gods, for my devotion:
Exit with Conallus.
Arc.
No more: I could not by my Art foresee
This danger.
Eth.
Our father seem'd much troubled.
Arc.
I must appeare a stranger to all passages,
Be not disturb'd, my princely charge, use you
The free delights of life, while they are presented
In these your lovers: Sirra, make fast the doore,
And wait aloofe; I'll follow the sad King.
Exit.
Fed.
No miserie can happen, while I thus
Embrace Ferochus.
Eth.
And I safe in the armes
Of my deare servant.
End.
You make it heaven by gracing me.
Fer.
But why have we so long
Delay'd our blest enjoyings, thus content
With words, the shaddowes of our happinesse.
Rod.
So, so, here's fine devotion in the Temple:
But where's my bracelet, let me see?
Fer.
Where's Rodamant?
Rod.
Am I invisible agen? Is this the trick on't.
Fer.
The doore is safe; come, my deare princely Mistresse,
And with the crowne of love reward your servant.
Fed.
What's that?
Fer.
Fruition of our joyes.
Fed.
Is not this
Delight enough, that we converse, and smile
And kisse, Ferochus.
Rodamant kisses Fedella.
Fer.
Where, Madam?
Fed.
I felt another lip.
Fer.
Than mine? here's none, try it agen:
Why should her constitution be so cold?
I would not lose more opportunities,
Love, shoot a flame like mine into her bosome.
Eth.
Who's that, Endarius, that kist me now?
End.
None, since you blest my lip with a touch, Madam,
My brother is at play with your faire sister.
Eth.
I felt a beard.
End.
A beard? that's strange.
Rod.
You shall feele some else too.
He strikes Endarius.
End.
Why that unkind blow, Madam?
Eth.
What meanes my servant?
Rod.
Now to my other gamester.
Fer.
Oh, I could dwell for ever in this bosome,
Rod. puls Fer. by the nose.
But is there nothing else for us to taste?
Hold.
Fed.
What's the matter?
Fer.
Something has almost torne away my nose.
Endarius?
End.
What sayes my brother?
Fer.
Did you pull me by the nose?
End.
I mov'd not hence.
Did you kick me, brother?
Fed.
We have troubled fancies sure, here's no body
But our selves; the doores, you say, are safe.
Fer.
Wonot that prompt you to something else?
Fed.
I dare not understand you.
What bloud is that upon your face?
Rod.
You want a beard, young Gentleman.
Fer.
Mine? Bloud; I felt something that like a flie
Glanc'd o'my cheeke:
Brother, your nose bled you that fine board.
End.
You need not blush alone side, brother, ha, ha.
Is not this strange, sister; how came our servants
So bloudy?
Fer.
Agen. I prethee leave this fooling with my face,
I shall be angrie.
End.
I touch'd you not.
Rod.
Another wipe for for you.
Eth.
Some spirit sure:
I cannot containe laughter: what a raw head my servant has?
Fed.
Mine has the same complexion.
Rod.
Put me to keep the doore another time. I ha kept 'em honest,
and now I will be visible agen.
Knock.
Fer.
Rodamant.
Rod.
Here: I was a sleep, but this noyse wak'd me.
Ha you done with the Ladies?
Open the doores.
Within.
Enter Priest.
Pr.
We are undone, my Lords, the King is coming
In furie back againe, with full resolve
To break these images, his son is slaine,
And burnt to ashes since, in Milcho's house,
And he will be reveng'd upon the gods,
He sayes, that would not save his dearest son:
I feare he will turne Christian: Archimagus
Is under guard, and brought along to see
This execution done, no art can save you.
Eth.
We are lost too for ever, in our honours.
Leo.
Break downe the Temple doores.
Within.
Pr.
He's come already, we are all lost, Madam.
Fer.
Teare off these antick habits quickly, brother,
Doe you the same. More bloud upon our faces.
Oh, my Fedella, something may preserve us
To meet agen: Endarius, so, so: open.
Enter King, Archimagus, Guard. Ferochius, Endarius confidently meet the King.
Leo.
Ha! keep off, more horrours to affright me,
I must confesse I did command your deaths
Unjustly, now my son is murder'd for it.
Oh do not pull more wrath from heaven upon you.
Love innocence, the gods have thus reveng'd
In your sonnes tragedy: Draw not a greater
Vp on your self and this faire Iland, by
Threatning the temples, and the gods themselves,
Looke on them still with humble reverence,
Or greater punishments remaine for you
To suffer; and our ghosts shall never leave
To fright thy conscience, and with thousand stings
Afflict thy soule to madnesse and despaire:
Be patient yet and prosper, and let fall
Thy anger on the Christians, that else
Will poyson thy faire kingdome.
Kin.
Ha, Archimagus, canst thou forgive me,
And send those spirits hence?
Arc.
I can, great Sir,
You troubled Spirits, I command you leave
The much distracted King; returne and speedily,
To sleepe within the bosome of the sea,
Which the kings wrath, and your sad fates assign'd yee;
And as you move to your expecting monument
The waves agen, no frowne appeare upon you,
But glide away in peace.
End., Fer.
We do obey
Great Priest, and vanish.
Exeunt.
Eth.
Are they gone Fedella?
They talk of womans wit at a dead lift,
This was above our braines; I love him for't
And wish my self in's armes now to reward him,
I should finde him no ghost a'my conscience:
But where shall we meete next.
Fed.
Let us away.
Exeunt
Kin.
Art sure they are gone Archimagus? my feares
So leave me, and religion once agen
Enter my stubborne heart, which dar'd to mutinie
And quarrell with the gods; Archimagus,
By grubbing up these Christians, that begin
To infect us, and our kingdome.
Arc.
This becomes you,
And if you please to heare me, I dare promise
The speedy ruine of them all.
Kin.
Th'art borne
To make us happy, how my deere Archimagus?
Arc.
This Iland Sir is full of dangerous serpents,
Of toads, and other venomous destroyers:
I will from every province of this kingdome
Summon these killing creatures to devoure him,
My prayer and power of the gods, feare not,
Will doo't, by whom inspir'd I prophesie
Patricks destruction.
Kin.
I embrace my Priest,
Do this, and I'll forget my sonne, and die,
And smile to see this Christians tragedie.
Exeunt.
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