[Julia, first whispered by AMIDEO, goes into the dance, performed by Cupid, Phoebus, Mercury, Ceres, Venus, and JULIA.  Towards the end of the dance, RODORICK, in the habit of Pluto, rises from below in a black chariot, all flaming, and drawn by black horses; he ravishes Julia, who personated Proserpine, and as he is carrying her away, his vizard fails off:  HIPPOLITO first discovers him.

Hip.  A rape, a rape! ’tis Roderick, ’tis Roderick!

Rod.  Then I must have recourse to this. [Draws.

Jul.  O heavens!

[DON MANUEL and GONSALVO draw, and a Servant; the two that acted Phoebus and Mercury return to assist RODORICK, and are beat back by MANUEL and a Servant, while GONSALVO attacks RODORICK.

Gons.  Unloose thy hold, foul villain.

Rod.  No, I’ll grasp her Even after death.

Jul.  Spare him, or I’ll die with him.

Gons.  Must ravishers and villains live, while I In vain implore her mercy?

[Thrusts at him, and hurts JULIA in the arm.

Jul.  Oh, I am murdered!

Gons.  Wretched that I am,
What have I done?  To what strange punishment
Will you condemn this guilty hand?  And yet
My eyes were guilty first—­For they could look
On nothing else but you; and my unlucky hand
Too closely followed them!—­

Enter MANUEL again.

Man.  The powers above are just, that thou still livest, For me to kill.

Rod.  You’ll find no easy task on’t
Alone; come both together, I defy you! 
Curse on this disguise, that has betrayed me
Thus cheaply to my death.—­

Man.  Under a devil’s shape, thou could’st not be Disguised.

Jul.  Then, must he die?—­
Yet, I’ll not bid my Roderick farewell;
For they take leave, who mean to be long absent.

Gons.  Hold, sir!  I have had blood enough already;
And must not murder Julia again
In him she loves.  Live, sir; and thank this lady.

Rod.  Take my life, and spare my thanks.

Man.  Though you Forgive him, let me take my just revenge.

Gons.  Leave that distinction to our dull divines:  That ill, I suffer to be done, I do.

Hip.  My heart bleeds for him:  to see his virtue
O’ercome so fatally, against such odds
Of fortune, and of love!—­

Man.  Permit his death, and Julia will be yours.

Jul.  Permit it not, and Julia will thank you.

Gons.  Who e’er could think, that one kind word from Julia
Should be preferred to Julia herself? 
Could any man think it a greater good
To save a rival, than possess a mistress? 
Yet this I do! these are thy riddles, love!—­
What fortune gives me, I myself destroy;
And feed my virtue, but to starve my joy. 
Honour sits on me like some heavy armour,
And with its stiff defence, encumbers me;
And yet, when I would put it off, it sticks
Like Hercules’s shirt; heats me at once;
And poisons me!