_Rug._ That we should be so stupid To trust the arrant'st Villain that e'r flatter'd, The bloodiest too, to believe a few soft words from him, And give way to his prepar'd tears. _Within, Alphonso._ Oh, Oh, Oh. _Rug._ Hark, Fryar _Marco_, hark, the poor Prince, that we should be such Block-heads, As to be taken with his drinking first! And never think what Antidotes are made for! Two wooden sculls we have, and we deserve to be hang'd for't; For certainly it will be laid to our charge; As certain too, it will dispatch him speedily, Which way to turn, or what to-- _Mar._ Let's pray, Heavens hand is strong. _Rug._ The poyson's strong, you would say. _Enter_ Alphonso, _carried on a Couch by two Fryars._ Would any thing--He comes, let's give him comfort. _Alph._ Give me more air, air, more air, blow, blow, Open thou Eastern Gate, and blow upon me, Distill thy cold dews, O thou icy Moon, And Rivers run through my afflicted spirit. I am all fire, fire, fire, the raging dog star Reigns in my bloud, Oh which way shall I turn me? _Ætna_, and all his flames burn in my head, Fling me into the Ocean or I perish; Dig, dig, dig, till the Springs fly up, The cold, cold Springs, that I may leap into 'em, And bathe my scorcht Limbs in their purling Pleasures. Or shoot me up into the higher Region, Where treasures of delicious Snow are nourisht, And Banquets of sweet Hail. _Rug._ Hold him fast Fryer, O how he burns! _Alph._ What will ye sacrifice me? Upon the Altar lay my willing body, And pile your Wood up, fling your holy incense; And as I turn me you shall see all flame, Consuming flame, stand off me, or you are ashes. _Both._ Most miserable wretches. _Alph._ Bring hither Charity And let me hug her, Fryer, they say she's cold, Infinite cold Devotion cannot warm her; Draw me a river of false lovers tears Clean through my breast, they are dull, cold, and forgetful, And will give ease, let Virgins sigh upon me, Forsaken souls, the sighs are precious, Let them all sigh: Oh hell, hell, hell, Oh horror. _Mar._ To bed, good Sir.