_Lis._ The bounds, _Alcidon_? Can all the winds of mischief, from all Quarters, _Euphrates_, _Ganges_, _Tigris_, _Volga_, _Po_, Paying at once their tribute to this Ocean, Make it swell higher? I am a Murtherer, Banish'd, proscrib'd, is there ought else that can Be added to it? _Lid._ I have lost a friend, Priz'd dearer than my being, and he dead, My miseries at the height contemn the worst Of Fortunes malice. _Alc._ How our humane weakness, Grown desperate from small disasters, makes us Imagine them a period to our sorrows! When the first syllable of greater woes Is not yet written. _Lid._ How? _Lis._ Speak it at large, Since grief must break my heart, I am ambitious It should be exquisite. _Alc._ It must be told, Yet ere you hear it, with all care put on The surest armour anvil'd in the Shop Of passive fortitude; the good _Cleander_, Your friend, is murther'd. _Lis._ 'Tis a terrible pang, And yet it will not do, I live yet, act not The Torturers part; if that there be a blow Beyond this, give it, and at once dispatch me. _Alc._ Your Sword died in his heart-bloud was found near him, Your private Conference at mid-night urg'd With fair _Calista_; which by her whose pure truth, Would never learn to tell a lie, being granted, She by enrag'd _Beronte_ is accus'd Of Murther and Adultery, and you (However I dare swear it false) concluded Her principal Agent. _Lid._ Wave upon wave rowls o'r me. My Sister? my dear Sister? _Clar._ Hold, great heart. _Fry._ Tear open his Doublet. _Lis._ Is this wound too narrow For my life to get out at? Bring me to A Cannon loaded, and some pitying friend Give fire unto it, while I nail my breast Unto his thundring mouth, that in the instant, I may be piece-meal torn, and blown so far, As not one joint of my dismember'd limbs May ever be by search of man found out. _Cleander!_ Yet, why name I him? however His fall deserv'd an Earth-quake, if compar'd With what true honour in _Calista_ suffers, Is of no moment; my good Angel keep me From Blasphemy, and strike me dumb before, In th' agony of my spirit, I do accuse The Powers above, for their unjust permission Of Vertue, innocent Vertue, to be branded With the least vicious mark. _Clar._ I never saw a man so far transported. _Alc._ Give it way, 'tis now no time to stop it. _Enter_ Lancelot. _Lanc._ Sir, I have bought Fresh horses; and as you respect your life, Speedily back 'em; the Archers of the Kings guard Are every where in quest of you.