_Mount._ Or thou, damn'd one, worse; Thou black swoln pitchy cloud, of all my afflictions: Thou night hag, gotten when the bright Moon suffer'd: Thou hell it self confin'd in flesh: what trick now? Tell me, and tell me quickly what thy mischief Has done with her, and to what end, and whether Thou hast remov'd her body, or by this holy place This Sword shall cut thee into thousand pieces, A thousand thousand, strow thee ore the Temple A sacrifice to thy black sire, the Devil. _Ro[c]._ Tell him, you see he's angry. _Abd._ Let him burst, Neither his sword, nor anger do I shake at, Nor will yield to feed his poor suspitions, His idle jealousies, and mad dogs heats One thought against my self: ye have done a brave deed; A manly, and a valiant piece of Service: When ye have kill'd me, reckon't amongst your Battels; I am sorry ye are so poor, so weak a Gentleman, Able to stand no fortune: I dispose of her? My mischief make her away? a likely project, I must play booty against my self, if any thing cross ye, I am the devil, and the devils heir, All plagues, all mischiefs. _Mount._ Will ye leave and do yet? _Ab._ I have done too much, Far, far too much, for such a thankless fellow, If I be devil, you created me; I never knew those arts, nor bloody practises (---- o'your cunning heart, that mine of mischief) Before your flatteries won 'em into me. Here did I leave her, leave her with that certainty About this hour to wake again. _Mount._ Where is she? This is the last demand. _Ab._ Did I now know it, And were I sure, this were my latest minute, I would not tell thee: strike, and then I'll curse thee: _Roc._ I see a light, stand close, and leave your angers. We all miscarry else. _Enter_ Gomera, _Page with Torch_. _Ab._ I am now careless. _Mount._ Peace, prethee peace, sweet, peace, all friends. _Abd._ Stand close then. _Gom._ Wait there Boy, with the light, till I call to thee: In darkness was my soul and sences clouded When my fair Jewel fell, the night of jealousie, In all her blackness drawn about my judgment: No light was let into me, to distinguish Betwixt my suddain anger and her honor, A blind sad Pilgrimage shall be my pennance, No comfort of the day will I look up at: Far darker than my jealous Ignorance Each place of my aboad shall be my prayers No ceremonious lights shall set off more: Bright Armes, and all that carry lustre, life, Society, and solace, I forsake ye. And were it not once more to see her beauties, (For in her bed of death, she must be sweet still,) And on her cold sad lips seal my repentance; Thou child of heaven, fair light I could not miss thee. _Mount._ I know the tongue, would I were out again, I have done him too much wrong to look upon him.