_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. _A Thunder-bolt strikes him_. _Omnes_. The King is strucke with thunder! _Eugen_. Thankes, Divine Powers; Yours be the triumph and the wonder ours. _Anton_. Unbinde him till a new King fill the throne; And he shall doome him. _A Hubert, a Hubert, a Hubert_! _Flourish: Enter Hubert, armed with shields and swords. Bellina and a company of Souldiers with him_. _Hub_. What meanes this cry, 'a Hubert'? Where's your King? _Omnes_. Strucke dead by thunder.