King.  Is he not yet dispatcht?

Belliz.  Yes, King, I thanke thee;
I have all my life time trod on rotten ground,
And still so deepe beene sinking that my soule
Was oft like to bee lost; but now I see
A guide, sweete guide, a blessed messenger
Who having brought me up a little way
Up yonder hill, I then am sure to buy
For a few stripes here rich eternity.

    2 ANGEL SINGS.

Victory, victory! hell is beaten downe, The Martyr has put on a golden Crowne; Ring Bels of Heaven, him welcome hither, Circle him Angels round together.

1 Angel.  Follow!

Vict.  I will; what sacred voice cryes ‘follow’!  I am ready:  Oh send me after him.

King.  Thou shalt not, Till thou hast fed my lust.

Vict.  Thou foole, thou canst not;
All my mortality is shaken off;
My heart of flesh and blood is gone; my body
Is chang’d; this face is not that once was mine. 
I am a Spirit, and no racke of thine
Can touch me.

King.  Not a racke of mine shall touch thee. 
Why should the world loose such a paire of Sunnes
As shine out from thine eyes?  Why art thou cruell,
To make away thy selfe and murther mee? 
Since whirle-winds cannot shake thee thou shalt live,
And Ile fanne gentle gales upon thy face. 
Fetch me a day bed, rob the earths perfumes
Of all the ravishing sweetes to feast her sence;
Pillowes of roses shall beare up her head;
O would a thousand springs might grow in one
To weave a flowry mantle o’re her limbes
As she lyes downe.

    Enter two Angels about the bed.

Vict.  O that some rocke of Ice Might fall on me and freeze me into nothing.

King.  Enchant our [her?] eares with Musicke; would I had skill
To call the winged musitians of the aire
Into these roomes! they all should play to thee
Till golden slumbers danc’d upon thy browes,
Watching to close thine eye-lids.

Ang.  These Starres must shine no more; soule, flye away.  Tyrant, enioy but a cold lumpe of clay.

King.  My charmes worke; shee sleepes,
And lookes more lovely now she sleepes. 
Against she wakes, Invention, grow thou poore,
Studying to finde a banquet which the gods
Might be invited to.  I need not court her now
For a poor kisse; her lips are friendly now,
And with the warme breath sweeting all the Aire,
Draw mee thus to them.—­Ha! the lips of Winter
Are not so cold.

Anton.  She’s dead, Sir.

King.  Dead?

Dam.  As frozen as if the North-winde had in spight Snatcht her hence from you.

King.  Oh; I have murthered her! 
Perfumes some creature kill:  she has so long
In that darke Dungeon suck’t pestiferous breath,
The sweete has stifled her.  Take hence the body,
Since me it hated it shall feele my hate: 
Cast her into the fire; I have lost her,
And for her sake all Christians shall be lost
That subjects are to me:  massacre all,
But thou, Eugenius, art the last shall fall
This day; and in mine eye, though it nere see more,
Call on thy helper which thou dost adore.