King.  Would I liv’d To add a second part too’t.  Read, and listen:  No Vandall ere writ such a Chronicle.

Anth.  Five hundred[134] broyl’d to death in Oyle and Lead:  Seven hundred flead alive, their Carkasses Throwne to King Genzericks hounds.

King.  Ha, ha, brave hunting.

Anth.  Upon the great day of Apollo’s feast, The fourth Moneth of your Reigne.

King.  O give me more, Let me dye fat with laughing.

Anth.  Thirty faire Mothers, big with Christian brats,
Upon a scaffold in the Palace plac’d
Had first their dugges sear’d off, their wombes ript up,
About their miscreant heads their first borne Sonnes
Tost as a Sacrifice to Jupiter,
On his great day and the Ninth Month of Genzerick.

King.  A Play; a Comicall Stage our Palace was.  Any more? oh, let me surfeit.

Anth.  Foure hundred Virgins ravisht.

King.  Christian Whores; common, ’tis common.

Anth.  And then their trembling bodies tost on the Pikes Of those that spoyl’d ’em, sacrific’d to Pallas.

King.  More, more; hang Mayden-heads, Christian Maiden-heads.

Anth.  This leafe is full of tortur’d Christians:  Some pauncht, some starv’d, some eyes and braines bor’d out, Some whipt to death, some torne by Lyons.

King. Damianus, I cannot live to heare my service out; Such haste the Gods make to reward me.

Omnes.  Looke to the King. (Shouts within.)

    Enter Hubert.

King.  What shouts are these? see, Cosmo.

Cosmo.  Good newes, my Lord; here comes Hubert from the warres.

Hub.  Long life and health wait ever on the King.

King. Hubert, thy wishes are come short of both.  Hast thou good newes? be briefe then and speake quickly:  I must else heare thee in another World.

Hub.  In briefe, then, know:  Henrick, your valiant sonne, With Bellizarius and my selfe come laden With spoiles to lay them at your feet.  What lives the sword spar’d serve to grace your Triumph, Till from your lips they have the doome of death.

King.  What are they?

Hub.  Christians, and their Chiefe a Church-man, Eugenius, Bishop of Carthage, and with him Seven hundred Captives more, all Christians.

King.  Hold, Death; let me a little taste these ioyes, Then take me ravisht hence.  Glad mine eyes, Hubert, With the victorious Boy.

Hub.  Your Starre comes shining.
                                [Exit Hubert.

King.  Lift me a little higher, yet more:  Doe the Immortall Powers poure blessings downe, And shall I not returne them?