[_Exeunt._ SCENE, _a Prison_. _Enter_ Theorbeo, _and_ Dologodelmo _looking on his Watch_. _Theor._ Our Time is almost expired. _Dolo._ I think this Finger is like the Dart of Death, upon the Figure of Twelve sits my Life; Oh how it steals to sting! _Theor._ Those are melancholly Thoughts, think not of Death, but of Life, or of any thing that will divert thee most. _Dolo._ When I think my King is in misery, and _Darony_ upon his Throne; when the Noble suffer, and Miscreants are blest, then my Faculties within me rejoice; there is a secret Thought in that, which revives my very Soul. _Theor._ A small Offence unthrones the Noble, but infamous Actions raise a Tyrant. _Enter Guards and Executioner._ _Theor._ After what manner must we suffer? _Dolo._ In the Room of burning glass. _Theor._ Then what means this Executioner? _Dolo._ If the Sun destroys us not, as he rides along the Meridian Course, by this Man we must be slaughtered. _Offic._ My Lord, your Time’s expired; Guards attend here. _Enter_ Flame. _Fla._ But hold, I’m come to give you a Description of your happy Flight to the _Elysian_: Your Neck’s no sooner laid to the Block, but the Stroke’s given; immediately your Soul begins a March through all the Elements: in the Body first, you’re confin’d five Minutes in the Regions of Fire, amazed, amidst the verdant green Climes of Water and Air; you pass then heavily through the solemn Gloom of Earth; you go, you faint, the Soul bows, farewel to Nature; you fall into a dark, black Slumber, a Trance; and when the Spirit touches you upon the Elbow, you wake surpriz’d in a World of Light; there you see _Shakespear_, _Milton_, _Homer_, sprightly, alert, alive, flying swiftly through the radiant Climes, to visit the Wits of every Generation; the Rich, Poor, the Merry, Mournful; the pamper’d, hungry Souls are there. Alas, the Scene is chang’d, you’ll not pity them; Queen _Eliz._ is in her Hut, selling of fry’d Fritters; _Pompey_ and _Alexander_ carry Charcoal to feed her Fires; the Great Mogul, the Czar, the grim Bashaw, the Emperor, the Grand Turk and _Cæsar_, are scrambling for the Drops of the Pan, and as they are wont, are scuffling for Trifles, till it raises their inextinguishable Rage to Loggerheads, cutting, flashing, carbonading _Nero_’s Buttocks; nay, they’re all fighting in Blood up to the Ears, and there is the Devil to do amongst them. [_Exit_ Flame. _Theo. Dologodelmo_ farewell. _Dolo._ Our Time is come to part.