Eugen.  Oh happy daughter, thou in this dost bring That Requiem to our soules which Angels sing.

Dam.  Can you endure this wrong, Sir?

Cosmo.  Be out-brav’d by a seducing Strumpet?

King.  Binde her fast;
Weele try what recantation you can make. 
Hagge, in the presence of your brave holy Champion
And thy Husband,
One of my Cammell drivers shall take from thee
The glory of thy honesty and honour. 
Call in the Peasant.

Vict. Bellizarius, Eugenius, is there no guard above us That will protect me from a rape? ’tis worse Than worlds of tortures.

Eugen.  Fear not, Victoria;
Be thou a chaste one in thy minde, thy body
May like a Temple of well tempered steele
Be batter’d, not demolishe’d.

Belliz.  Tyrant, be mercifull;
And if thou hast no other vertue in thee
Deserving memory to succeeding ages,
Yet onely thy not suffering such an out-rage
Shall adde praise to thy name.

King.  Where is the Groome?

Eugen.  Oh sure the Sunne will darken And not behold a deed so foule and monstrous.

    Enter Epidophorus with a Slave.

Epi.  Here is the Cammell driver.

Omnes.  Stand forth, sirrah.

Epi.  Be bould and shrink not; this is she.

1 Cam.  And I am hee.  Is’t the kings pleasure that I should mouse[170] her, and before all these people?

King.  No; ’tis considered better; unbinde the fury And dragge her to some corner; ’tis our pleasure, Fall to thy businesse freely.

1 Cam.  Not too freely neither:  I fare hard and drinke water; so doe the Indians, yet who fuller of Bastards? so doe the Turkes, yet who gets greater Logger-heads?  Come, wench; Ile teach thee how to cut up wild fowle.

Vict.  Guard me, you heavens.

Belliz.  Be mine eyes lost for ever.

1 Cam.  Is that her husband?

Epi.  Yes.

1 Cam.  No matter; some husbands are so base, they keepe the doore whilst they are Cuckolded; but this is after a more manlier way, for he stands bound to see it done.

King.  Haile her away.

1 Cam.  Come, Pusse!  Haile her away? which way? yon way? my Camells backs cannot climbe it.

Anton.  The fellow is struck mad.

1 Cam.  That way? it lookes into a Mill-pond, Whirre! how the Wheels goe and the Divell grindes.  No, this way.

King.  Keepe the slave back!

1 Cam.  Backe, keep me backe! there sits my wife kembing her haire, which curles like a witches felt-locks[171]! all the Neets in’t are Spiders, and all the Dandruffe the sand of a Scriveners Sand-boxe.  Stand away; my whore shall not be lousie; let me come noynt her with Stavesucre[172].