_Per._ He m[u]st, he must. _Gab._ We'll watch him till he wakes, Then bind him, and then torture him. _Per._ 'Tis nothing. No, take him dead drunk now without repentance, His leachery inseam'd upon him. _Gab._ Excellent. _Per._ I'll do it my self; and when 'tis done, provide ye, For we'll away for _Italy_ this night. _Gab._ We'll follow thorow all hazards. _Per._ Oh false Lord, Unmanly, mischievous; how I could curse thee; But that but blasts thy fame; have at thy heart, fool: Loop-holes I'll make enough to let thy life out. _Lav._ Oh! does the devil ride me? _Per._ Nay then. _Lav._ Murder. Nay, then take my share too. _Per._ Help; oh! he has slain me. Bloudy intentions must have bloud. _Lav._ Hah? _Per._ Heaven. _Gab._ He sinks, he sinks, for ever sinks: oh fortune! Oh sorrow! how like seas thou flowest upon me! Here will I dwell for ever. Weep _Maria_, Weep this young man's misfortune: oh thou truest! _Enter Spirit._ _Lav._ What have I done? _Spir._ That that has mark'd thy soul man. _Lav._ And art thou come again thou dismal spirit? _Spir._ Yes, to devour thy last. _Lav._ Mercy upon thee. _Spir._ Thy hour is come: succession, honor, pleasure, And all the lustre thou so long hast look'd for Must here have end: Summon thy sins before thee. _Lav._ Oh my affrighted soul! _Spir._ There lies a black one; Thy own best servant by thy own hand slain, Thy drunkenness procur'd it: There's another: Think of fair _Gabriella_, there she weeps; And such tears are not lost. _Lav._ Oh miserable! _Spir._ Thy foul intention to the virtuous _Casta_. _Lav._ No more, no more, thou wild-fire. _Spir._ Last, thy last wife, Think on the wrong she suffers. _Lav._ O my miserie. Oh! whither shall I flie? _Spir._ Thou hast no faith, fool. Heark to thy knell. [_Sings, and vanishes._ _Lav._ Millions of sins muster about mine eyes now: Murders, ambitions, lust, false faiths; O horror, In what a stormie form of death thou rid'st now! Me thinks I see all tortures, fires, and frosts, Deep sinking caves, where nothing but despair dwels, The balefull birds of night hovering about 'em; A grave, me thinks, now opens, and a herse Hung with my Arms tumbles into it: oh! Oh! my afflicted soul: I cannot pray; And the least child that has but goodness in him May strike my head off; so stupid are my powers: I'll lift mine eyes up though. _Mar._ Cease these laments, They are too poor for venge[a]nce: _Lavall_ lives yet. _Gab._ Then thus I drie all sorrows from these eyes, Fury and rage possess 'em now: damn'd divell. _Lav._ Hah? _Gab._ This for young _Perolot_. _Lav._ O mercy, mercy. _Gab._ This for my wrongs.