_King_. I see the injuries I have done must be reveng'd. _Di_. Sir, this is not the way to find her out. _King_. Run all, disperse your selves: the man that finds her, Or (if she be kill'd) the Traytor; I'le [make] him great. _Di_. I know some would give five thousand pounds to find her. _Pha_. Come let us seek. _King_. Each man a several way, here I my self. _Di_. Come Gentlemen we here. _Cle_. Lady you must go search too. _Meg_. I had rather be search'd my self. [_Exeunt omnes_. _Enter_ Arethusa. _Are_. Where am I now? Feet find me out a way, Without the counsel of my troubled head, I'le follow you boldly about these woods, O're mountains, thorow brambles, pits, and flouds: Heaven I hope will ease me. I am sick. _Enter_ Bellario. _Bell_. Yonder's my Lady; Heaven knows I want nothing; Because I do not wish to live, yet I Will try her Charity. Oh hear, you that have plenty, From that flowing store, drop some on dry ground; see, The lively red is gone to guard her heart; I fear she faints. Madam look up, she breaths not; Open once more those rosie twins, and send Unto my Lord, your latest farewell; Oh, she stirs: How is it Madam? Speak comfort. _Are_. 'Tis not gently done, To put me in a miserable life, And hold me there; I pray thee let me go, I shall do best without thee; I am well. _Enter_ Philaster. _Phil_. I am to blame to be so much in rage, I'le tell her coolely, when and where I heard This killing truth. I will be temperate In speaking, and as just in hearing. Oh monstrous! Tempt me not ye gods, good gods Tempt not a frail man, what's he, that has a heart But he must ease it here? _Bell_. My Lord, help the Princess. _Are_. I am well, forbear. _Phi_. Let me love lightning, let me be embrac'd And kist by Scorpions, or adore the eyes Of Basilisks, rather than trust to tongues, And shrink these veins up; stick me here a stone Lasting to ages in the memory Of this damn'd act. Hear me you wicked ones, You have put the hills on fire into this breast, Not to be quench'd with tears, for which may guilt Sit on your bosoms; at your meals, and beds, Despair await you: what, before my face? Poyson of Aspes between your lips; Diseases Be your best issues; Nature make a Curse And throw it on you.