 | The Martyr'd Souldier |  |
ACTUS TERTIUS.
Enter Clowne and Huntsmen severally.1. Hunt.
Ho, rise sluggards: so, so, ho; so, ho.
2. Hunt.
So, ho, ho, we come.
Clown.
Morrow jolly Wood-men.
Omnes.
Morrow, morrow.
Clow.
Oh here's a Morning, like a grey ey'd Wench,
Able to intice a man to leape out of his bed,
If he love Hunting; had he as many cornes on his toes
As there are Cuckolds in the City.
1. Hunt.
And that's enough in conscience to keepe men from going
Were his Boots as wide as the black Iacks,
Or Bombards tost by the Kings Guard.
2. Hunt.
Are the swift Horses ready?
Clow.
Yes, and better fed than taught;
For one of 'em had like to have kick't
My jigumbobs as I came by him.
1. Hunt.
Where are the Dogges?
Clow.
All coupled as Theeves going to a Sessions,
And are to be hang'd if they be found faulty.
2. Hunt.
What Dogges are they?
Clow.
A packe of the bravest Spartan Dogges in the world,
If they doe but once open, and spend there
As if a Ring of Bells were in it; admirably flewd by their eares,
You would take 'em to be singing boyes;
And for Dewlaps, they are as bigge as Vintners bags,
In which they straine Ipocras.
Omnes.
There boy.
Clow.
And hunt so close and so round together,
That you may cover 'em all with a sheete.
2. Hunt.
If it be wide enough.
Clow.
Why as wide as some foure or five Acres that's all,
1. Hunt.
And what's the game to day?
Clow.
The wilde Boare.
1. Hunt.
Which of 'em, the greatest? I have not seene him.
Clow.
Not seene him? he is as big as an Elephant.
2. Hunt.
Now will he build a whole Castle full of lies.
Clow.
Not seene him? I have.
Omnes.
No, no; seene him; as big as an Elephant.
Clow.
The backe of him is as broad, let me see,
As a pretty Lighter.
1. Hunt.
A Lighter!
Clow.
Yes: and what doe you thinke the Brisells are worth?
2. Hunt.
Nothing.
Clow.
Nothing? one Shoomaker offer'd to finde me and the
Heire-male of my body, 22. yeeres, but to have them for his
owne ends.
2. Hunt.
He would put Sparabiles into the soales then?
Clow.
Not a Bill, not a Sparrow;
This Boares head is so huge, that a Vintner but drawing that
picture, and hanging it up for a Signe, it fell down, and broke
him,
1. Hunt.
Oh horrible!
Clow.
He has two stones so bigge: let me see, (a Poxe) thy
head is but a Cherry-stone to the least of' em.
2. Hunt.
How long are his Tuskes?
Clow.
Each of them as crooked, and as long as a Mowers
sith.
1. Hunt.
There's a Cutler.
And when he whets his Tuskes, you would sweare
there were a sea in's belly, and that his chops were the shore,
to which the Foame was beaten: if his Foame were frothy
Yest, 'twere worth tenne groats a paile for Bakers.
1. Hunts.
What will the King doe with him if he kill him?
Clown.
Bake him; and if they put him in one Pasty, a new Oven
must be made, with a mouth as wide as the gates of the
City.
Horne.
Omnes.
There boy, there boy.
Hornes and Noise within: Enter Antony meeting Damianus.
Ant.
Cosmo had like beene kild, the Boare recovering,
A Speare full in the Flanke from Cosmo's hand,
Foming with rage, he ranne at him, unhorst him;
And had, but that he fell behinde an Oake of admirable
Greatnesse, torne out his bowels,
His very Tuskes striking into the tree.
Made the old Champion shake.
Enter Cosmo.
Dam.
Where are the Dogges?
Cosmo.
No matter for the Curres:
I scap't well, but
Cannot finde the King.
Anton.
When did you see him?
Cosmo.
Not since the Boare tos'd up
Both horse and rider.
Enter Epidophorus, and all the Huntsmen in a hurry.
Epid.
A Liter for the King; the King is hurt.
Anton.
How?
Epid.
No man knowes; some say stung by an Adder,
As from his horse he fell; some cry by the Boare.
Anton.
The Boare never came neare him.
Dam.
The Kings Physitians.
Cosm.
Runne for the Kings Physitians.
Epid.
Conduct us to him.
A fatall hunting when a King doth fall:
All earthly pleasures are thus washt in gall.
Eugenius discovered sitting loaden with many Irons, a Lampe burning by him; then enter Clowne with a piece of browne bread, and a Carret roote.
Eugen.
Is this my dyet?
Clowne.
Yes marry is it; though it be not Dyet bread, 'tis
bread, 'tis your dinner: and though this be not the roote of all
mischiefe, yet 'tis a Carret, and excellent good meate, if you
had powderd Beefe to it.
Eug.
I am content with this.
Clowne.
If you bee not I cannot helpe it; for I am threatned
to be hang'd if I set but a Tripe before you, or give you a bone
to gnaw.
Eug.
For me thou shalt not suffer.
Clowne.
I thanke you, but were not you better be no good
Christian, as I am, and so fill your belly, as to lie here and starve,
and be hang'd thus in Chaines?
Eug.
No, 'tis my triumph, all these Chaines to me
Are silken Ribbonds; this course bread a banquet:
This gloomy Dungeon is to me more pleasing
Than the Kings Palace; and cou'd I winne thy soule
To shake off her blacke ignorance, thou, as I doe,
Would'st feele thirst, hunger, stripes, and Irons, nothing,
Nay, count death nothing; let me winne thee to me.
Clown.
Thanke yee for that; winne me from a Table full of
good meat to leape at a crust; I am no Scholler, and you they
say are a great one; and schollers must eate little, so shall you:
what a fine thing is it for me to report abroad of you, that you
are no great feeder, no Cormorant? what a quiet life is it
when a womans tongue lies still? and is't not as good when a
mans teeth lyes still.
Eug.
Performe what thou art bidden:
If thou art charg'd to starve me, Ile not
Blame thee, but blesse heaven.
If you were starv'd, what hurt were that to you?
Eug.
Not any, no not any.
Clown.
Here would be your praise when you should lie dead,
they would say, he was a very good man, but alas had little or
nothing in him.
Eug.
I am a slave to any misery
My Iudges doome me too.
Clown.
If you bee a slave, there's more slaves in the world
than you.
Eug.
Yes, thousands of brave fellowes, slaves to their vices,
The Usurer to his gold, drunkards to Wine,
Adulterers to their lust.
Clown.
Right Sir, so in Trades, the Smith is a slave to the Iron-monger,
the itchy silke-weaver to the Silke-man, the Clothworker
to the Draper, the Whore to the Bawd, the Bawd to
the Constable, and the Constable to a bribe.
Eug.
Is it the Kings will I should be thus chain'd?
Clown.
Yes indeed Sir: I can tell you in some countries they
are held no small fooles that goe in Chaines.
Eug.
I am heavy.
Clown.
Heavy, how can you chuse having so much Iron upon
you.
Eugen.
Deaths brother and I would have a little talke,
So thou wouldst leave us.
Clowne.
With all my heart, let deaths sister talke with you
too, and shee will, but let not me see her, for I am charg'd to
let no body come into you: if you want any water, give mee
your Chamber pot Ile fill it.
Exit.
Eugen.
No, I want none, I thanke thee:
Oh sweet affliction, thou blest booke being written
By Divine fingers: you Chaines that binde my body,
To free my soule; you Wheeles that wind me up
To an eternity of happinesse, mustre my holy thoughts, and as I
Write, Organ of heavenly Musicke to mine eares,
Haven to my shipwracke, balme to my wounds,
Sunne-beames which on me comfortably shine,
When Clouds of death are covering me; so gold,
Quicken the Spring; so rough Seas
Bring Marriners home, giving them gaines and ease:
Imprisonment, gyves, famine, buffettings,
The Gibbet and the Racke, Flint stones the Cushions
On which I kneele; a heape of Thornes and Briers
The Pillow to my head, a nasty prison,
Able to kill mankinde even with the smell:
All these to me are welcome, you are deaths servants,
When comes your Master to me? now I am arm'd for him:
Strengthen me that Divinity that enlightens
The darknesse of my soule; strengthen this hand
That it may write my challenge to the world,
Whom I defie, that I may on this paper
The picture draw of my confession:
Here doe I fixe my Standard; here bid Battaile
To Paganisme and infidelity:
Musicke; Enter Angel.
Mustre my holy thoughts, and as I write,
In this brave quarrell teach me how to fight.
As he is writing an Angel comes & stands before him: soft musick; he astonisht & dazel'd.
This is no common Almes to prisoners.
I never heard such sweetnesse—O mine eyes,
I that am shut from light, have all the light
Which the world sees by; here some heavenly
Fire is thrown about the roome,
And burnes so clearely, mine eye-bals
Drop out blasted at the sight.
He falls flat on the earth, and whilst a Song is heard, the Angel writes, and vanishes as it ends.
1. Song.
What are earthly honours,
But sins glorious banners?
Let not golden gifts delight thee,
Let not death nor torments fright thee
From thy place thy Captaine gives thee;
When thou faintest he relieves thee.
Is to the Morning singing,
Harke how the Bells are ringing,
It is for joy that thou to Heaven art flying:
This is not life, true life is got by dying.
Eug.
The light and sound are vanisht, but my feare
Sticks still upon my forehead: what's written here?
Reads.
Goe, and the bold Physitian play,
But touch the King, and drive away
The paine he feeles: but first assay
To free the Christians; if the King pay
Thy service ill, expect a day
When for reward thou shalt not stay.
Eug.
All writ in golden Letters, and cut so even,
As if some hand had hither reacht from Heaven
To print this Paper.
Enter Epidophorus.
Epid.
Come, you must to the King.
Eug.
I am so laden with Irons,
I scarce can goe.
Epid.
Wyer-whips shall drive you.
The King is counsell'd for his health, to bath him
In the warme blood of Christians, and you I thinke,
Must give him ease.
Eug.
Willingly; my fetters
Hang now methinks like feathers at my heeles;
On, any whither I can runne sir.
Epid.
Can you? Not very farre I feare.
Eug.
No windes my Faith shake, nor rock split in sunder;
The poore ship's tost here, my strong Anchor's yonder.
Exeūt.
Enter Bellizarius and Hubert.
Hub.
My Lord.
Bel.
Ha?
Hub.
Affraid in a close roome, where no foe comes,
Vnlesse it be a Weezle or a Rat,
And those besiege your Larder, or your Pantry:
Bel.
'Tis true my Lord, there danger was a safety; here
To be secure, I thinke most dangerous.
Or what could famine, wounds, or all th'extreames
That still attend a Souldiers actions,
Could not destroy one sillable from a Kings breath,
Can thus, thus easily win.
Hub.
Oh, 'tis their long observed policy,
To turne away these roaring boyes,
When they intend to rock licentious thoughts
In a soft roome, where every long Cushion is
Embroydered with old Histories of peace,
And all the Hangings of Warre thrust into the Wardrobe,
Till they grow musty or moth-eaten.
Bel.
One of those rusty Monuments am I.
Hub.
A little oyle of favour will scoure thee agen,
And make thee shine as bright as in that day
We wonne the famous battaile 'gainst the Christians.
Bel.
Never Hubert, never.
Enter Bellina, and kneeles weeping.
What newes now Girle,
Thy heart so great it cannot tell me?
Hub.
Sfoot why shouldst thou be troubled,
That art thus visited?
Let the King put me into any roome,
The closer, the better, and turne but such a Keeper to me,
And if ever I strive to runne away, though the doores be open,
May the Virgins curse destroy me,
And let me lamentably and most unmanly
Dye of the Greene-sicknesse.
Bel.
My blessing bring thee patience gentle Girle;
It is the best thy wronged Father can
Invoke for thee: 'tis my Bellina, Hubert,
Know her honour'd Sir, and pittie her.
Hub.
How sweetly shee becomes the face of woe!
Shee teacheth misery to court her beauty,
And to affliction lends a lovely looke: happy folkes
Would fell their blessings for her griefes
Bellina.
My honourd Father, your griev'd Daughter thus
Thrice every day to Heaven lifts her poore hand,
And payes her vowes to the incensed Powers
For your release and happy patience,
And will grow old in vowes unto those Powers,
Till they fall on me loaden with my wishes.
Belliz.
Thou art the comfort of my Treasure Girle;
Wee'le live together if it please the King,
And tell sad Stories of thy wretched Mother:
Give equall sighes to one anothers griefe.
And by discourse of happinesse to come.
Trample upon our present miseries.
Hub.
There is a violent fire runnes round about me,
Which my sighes blow to a consuming flame.
To be her Martyr is a happinesse,
The sainted soules would change their merit for it.
Methinkes griefe dwells about her purest eyes,
As if it begg'd a pardon for those teares
Exhausted hence, and onely due to love:
Her Vaile hangs like a Cloud over her face,
Through which her beauty, like a glimmering Starre,
Gives a transparent lustre to the night,
As if no sorrow could Ecclipse her light.
Her lips, as they discourse, methinks looke pale,
For feare they should not kisse agen; but met,
They blush for joy as happy Lovers doe,
After along divorce when they encounter.
Belliz.
Noble Lord, if you dare lose so much precious time,
As to be companion to my misery but one poore houre,
And not esteeme your selfe too prodigall
For that expence, this wretched Maid my Child,
Shall waite upon you with her sorrows stories,
Vouchsafe but you to heare it.
Hub.
Yes, with full eare.
Belliz.
To your best thoughts I leave you.
I will but read, and answer this my Letter.
Exit Belliz.
Why doe you seeme to loose your eyes on me?
Here's nothing but a pile of wretchednesse,
A branch that every way is shooke at roote,
And would (I thinke) even fall before you now,
But that Divinity, which props it up,
Inspires it full of comfort, since the Cause
My Father suffers for, gives a full glory
To his base fetters of Captivity:
And I beseech you Sir, if there but dwell
So much of vertue in you, as your lookes
Seeme to expresse, possesse your honour'd thoughts,
Bestow your pitty on us, not your scorne,
And wish for goodnesse sake, and your soules weale,
You were a sharer in these sufferings,
So the same Cause expos'd your fortunes too't.
Hub.
Oh happy woman, know I suffer more,
And for a cause as just.
Bellina.
Be proud then of that tryumph; but I am yet
A stranger to the Character of what
You say you suffer for:
Is it for Conscience?
Hub.
For love divine perfection.
Bellina.
If of Heavens love, how rich is your reward!
Hub.
Of Heavens best blessing, your most perfect selfe.
Bellina.
Alas sir, here perfection keeps no Court,
Love dresses here no wanton amorous bowers,
Sorrow has made perpetuall winter here,
And all my thoughts are Icie, past the reach
Of what Loves fires can thaw.
Hub.
Oh doe but take away a part of that
My breast is full of, of that holy fire,
The Queene of Loves faire Altar holds not purer,
Nor more effectuall, and sweet: if then
You melt not into passion for my wounds,
Effuse your Virgin vowes to chaine mine eares,
Weepe on my necke, and with your fervent sighes
Infuse a soule of comfort into me:
Ile breake the Altar of the foolish god,
That sacrifice to Cythereas sonne.
Bellina.
Did not my present fortunes and my vowes
Register'd in the Records of Heaven,
Tye me too strictly from such thoughts as these,
I feare me I should softly yeeld to what
My yet condition has beene stranger to:
To love my Lord, is to be miserable.
Hub.
Oh to thy sweetnesse Envy would prove kind,
Tormentor humble, no pale Murderer;
And the Page of death a smiling Courtier.
Venus must then, to give thee noble welcome,
Perfume her Temple with the breath of Nunnes,
Not Vesta's, but her owne, with Roses strow
The paths that bring thee to her blessed shrine:
Cloath all her Altars in her richest Robes,
And hang her walles with stories of such loves
Have rais'd her Tryumphs, and 'bove all at last
Record this day, the happy day, in which
Bellina prov'd to love a Convertite:
Be mercifull, and save me.
Bellina.
You are defil'd with Seas of Christians blood,
An enemy to Heaven, and which is good,
And cannot be a loving friend to me.
Hub.
If I have sinn'd, forgive me you just powers,
My ignorance, not cruelty has don't:
And here I vow my selfe to be hereafter
What e're Bellina shall instruct me in.
For she was never made but to possesse
The highest Mansion 'mongst your dignities,
Nor can Heaven let her erre.
Bellina.
On that condition thus I spread my armes,
Whose chaste imbraces ne're toucht man before,
And will to Hubert all the favour shew
His vertuous love can covet;
I will be ever his: goe thou to Warre,
These hands shall arme thee, and Ile watch thy Tent,
In peace Ile sit by thee, and read, or sing
Stanzaes of chaste love, of love purifi'd
From desires drossie blacknesse: nay, when our clouds
Of ignorance are quite vanish't, and that a holy
Religious knot betweene us may be tyed,
Bellina here vowes to be Huberts Bride,
Else doe I sweare perpetuall chastity.
Hub.
Thy vowes I seale, be thou my ghostly Tutor,
And all my actions levell'd to thy thoughts,
I am thy Creature.
Bellina.
Let Heaven too but now propitious prove,
And for thy soule thou hast wonne a happy love.
Come, shall we to my Father?
Exeunt.
Soft Musick.
Enter the King on his bed, two Physitians, Anthony, Damianus, and Cosmo.
King.
Are you Physitians?
Are you those men that proudly call your selves
The helps of Nature?
Ant.
Oh my good Lord, have patience.
King.
What should I doe? lye like a patient Asse,
Feele myselfe tortur'd by this diffused poyson,
But tortur'd more by these unsavory drugges.
Ant.
Come one of you your selves, and speake to him.
1. Phys.
How fares your Highnesse?
King.
Never worse: what's she?
Dami.
One of your Highnesse-Doctors.
King.
Come sit neare me,
Feele my pulse once agen, and tell me Doctor,
Tell me in tearmes that I may understand:
I doe not love your gibbrish; tell me honestly
Where the Cause lies, and give a Remedy,
And that with speed; or in despight of Art
Of Nature, you, and all your heavenly motions,
Ile recollect so much of life into me,
Some body told me that a Bath of mans blood
Would restore me; Christians shall pay for't:
Fetch the Bishop hither, he shall begin.
Cosm.
Hee's gone for.
King.
What's my disease?
1. Phys.
My Lord, you are poyson'd.
King.
I told thee so my selfe, and told thee how:
But what's the reason that I have no helpe?
The Coffers of my Treasury are full,
Or if they were not, tributary Christians
Bring in sufficient store to pay your fees,
If that you gape at.
2. Phys.
Wilt please your Highnesse then to take this Cordiall?
Gold never truely did you good till now.
King.
'Tis gone.
2. Phys.
My Lord, it was the perfectst tincture
Of Gold that ever any Art produc'd:
With it was mixt a true rare Quintessence,
Extracted out of Orientall Bezar,
And with it was dissolv'd the Magisteriall,
Made of the Horne Armenia so much boasts of:
Which though dull Death had usurp't Natures right,
Is able to create new life agen.
King.
Why does it good on men, and not on Kings?
We have the selfe-same passages for Nature
With mortall men, our pulses beate like theirs:
We are subject unto passions as they are.
I finde it now, but to my griefe I finde,
Life stands not with us on such ticklish points.
What is't because we are Kings, Life takes it leave
With greater state? No, no; the envious gods
Maligne our happinesse: Oh that my breath had power
With my last words to blast their Deities.
1. Phys.
The Cordiall that you tooke requires rest:
For healths sake good my Lord, repose your selfe.
King.
Yes, any thing for health; draw round the Curtaines.
Wee'le watch by him, whilst you two doe consult.
1. Phys.
VVhat guesse you by that Vrine?
2. Phys.
Surely death.
1. Phys.
Death certaine, without contradiction:
For though the Vrin be a whore, and lies,
Yet where I finde her in all parts agree
VVith other Symtomes of apparent death,
Ile give her faith: Pray Sir, doe but marke
These blacke Hypostacies, it plainely shewes
Mortification generally through the spirits,
And you may finde the Pulse to shew as much
By his uncertainty of time and strength.
2. Phys.
VVe finde the spirits often suffisticated
By many accidents, but yet not mortified;
A sudden feare will doe it.
1. Phys.
Very right;
But there's no malitious humour mixt
As in the King sir, you must understand:
A Scorpion stung him; now a Scorpion is
A small compacted creature, in whom Earth
Hath the predominance, but mixt with fire,
So that in him Saturne and Mars doe meet.
This little Creature hath his severall humours,
And these their excrements, these met together,
Enflam'd by anger, made a deadly poison:
And by how much the creatures body's lesse,
By so much is the force of venome more:
As Lightning through a windows Casement
Hurts more than that which enters at the doore.
2. Phys.
But for the way to cure it.
1. Phys.
Know none:
Yet Ancient VVriters have prescrib'd us many,
As Theophrastus holds most excellent.
Diophoratick Medicines to expell
Ill vapours from the noble parts by sweate:
But Avices and also Rabby Roses
Doe thinke it better by provoking Vrin,
And spirits from the blood have nutriment;
But for my part, I ever held opinon,
In such a case the ventosies are best.
2 Phys.
They are indeed, and they doe farre exceede.
1 Phys.
All the great curious Cataphlasmes,
Or the live taile of a deplum'd Henne,
Or your hot Pigeons, or your quartered Whelpes,
For they by a meere forc'd attractive power,
Retaine that safely which by force was drawne;
Whereas the other things I nam'd before,
Doe lose their vertue, as they lose their heat.
2 Phys.
The ventosies shall be our next intensions.
Anton.
Pray Gentlemen attend his Highnesse.
King.
Your next intentions be to drowne your selves,
Dogge-leaches all; I see I am not mortall,
For I with patience have thus long endur'd,
Beyond the strength of all mortality;
But now the thrice heate furnace of my bosome
Disdaineth bounds: doe not I scorch you all?
Goe, goe, you are all but prating Mountebankes,
Quacksalvers, and Imposures; get you all from me.
2 Phys.
These Ventosies my Lord will give you ease.
King.
A vengeance on thy Ventosies and thee.
Enter Eugenius.
Anton.
The Bishop Sir is come.
King.
Christian thy blood
Must give me ease and helpe.
Eugen.
Drinke then thy fill;
None of the Fathers that begot sweet Physick,
That Divine Lady, comforter to man,
Invented such a medicine as mans blood,
A drinke so pretious should not be so spilt;
Take mine, and heaven pardon you the guilt.
King.
A Butcher; see his throat cut.
Eugen.
I am so farre from shrinking, that mine owne hands
Sall bare my throat; and am so farre from wishing
My blood shall wash these Rushes,
King, I will cure thee.
1. Phys.
You cure him.
King.
Speak on fellow.
Eug.
If I doe not
Restore your limbes to soundnesse, drive the poyson
From the infected part, study your tortures,
To teare me peece-meale, yet be kept alive.
King.
Oh reverent man come neare me, worke this wonder,
Aske gold, honours, any, any thing,
The sublunary treasures of this world
Can yeeld, and they are thine.
Eug.
I will doe nothing without a recompence.
King.
A royall one.
Omnes.
Name what you would desire.
King.
Stand by, you trouble him,
A recompence can my Crowne buy thee, take it;
Reach him my Crowne, and plant it on his head.
Eug.
No, here's my bargaine.
King.
Quickly, oh speake quickly—
Off with the good-mans Irons.
Eug.
Free all those Christians, which are now thy slaves,
In all thy Cittadels, Castles, Fortresses,
Those in Bellanna, and Mersaganna,
Those in Alempha, and in Hazanoth,
Those in thy Gallies, those in thy Iayles and Dungeons.
King.
Those, any where; my Signet, take my Signet,
And free all on your lives, free all the Christians.
What dost thou else desire?
Eug.
This: that thy selfe trample upon thy Pagan gods.
Omnes.
Sir.
King.
Away.
Eug.
Wash your soule white by wading in the streame
Of Christian gore.
King.
I will turne Christian.
Dam.
Better wolves worry this accursed—
Better
Have Bandogs worry all of you, than I
To languish in a torment, that feedes on me,
As if the Furies bit me: Ile turne Christian,
And if I doe not, let the Thunder pay
My breach of promise; cure me, good old man,
And I will call thee father; thou shalt have
A King come kneeling to thee every Morning,
To take a blessing from thee, and to heare thee
Salute him as a Sonne:
When, when is this wonder?
Eug.
Now; you are well Sir?
King.
Ha!
Eug.
Has your paine left you?
King.
Yes, see else Damianus, Antony,
Cosmo, I am well.
Omnes.
He does it by inchantment.
1. Phys.
By meere Witch-craft.
Eug.
Thy payment for my cure?
King.
What?
Eug.
To turne Christian,
And set all Christian slaves at liberty.
King.
Ile hang and torture all;
Call backe the Messenger sent with our Signet;
For thy selfe, thou foole, should I allow
Thee life, thou wouldst be poyson'd by our
Colledge of Physitians; let him not touch me,
Nor ever more come neare me; and to be sure
Thy sorceries shall not strike me, stone him to death.
They binde him to a stake, and fetch stones in Baskets.
Omnes.
When?
King.
Now, here presently.
Eugen.
Ingratefull man.
King.
Dispatch, his voyce is horrid in our eares,
Kill him, hurle all, and in him kill my feares.
I would thy feares were ended.
King.
Why thus delay you?
Dam.
The stones are soft as spunges.
Anton.
Not any stone here
Can raze his skin.
Dam.
See Sir.
Cosm.
More Conjuring?
Eug.
Thankes havenly preservation.
King.
Mockt by a hell-hound?
Omnes.
This must not be endur'd Sir.
King.
Unbinde the wretch;
Naile him to the earth with Irons: Cannot death strike him?
New studied tortures shall.
Eug.
New tortures bring,
They all to me are but a banquetting.
Exit.
Anton.
But are you well indeed Sir?
King.
Passing well,
Though my Physitian fetcht the cure from hell:
All's one, I am glad I have it.
Exeunt.
| The Martyr'd Souldier | |