_Rasni._ Thou hast confirm'd my doubts, kind Radagon.-- Now ope, ye folds, where queen of favour sits, Carrying a net within her curlèd locks, Wherein the Graces are entangled oft; Ope like th' imperial gates where Phœbus sits, Whenas he means to woo his Clytia. Nocturnal cares, ye blemishers of bliss, Cloud not mine eyes whilst I behold her face.-- Remilia, my delight!--she answereth not. [_He draws the curtains, and finds her strucken black with thunder._ How pale! as if bereav'd in fatal meads, The balmy breath hath left her bosom quite: My Hesperus by cloudy death is blent.[76]-- Villains, away, fetch syrups of the Inde, Fetch balsomo, the kind preserve of life, Fetch wine of Greece, fetch oils, fetch herbs, fetch all, To fetch her life, or I will faint and die. [_They bring in all these, and offer; naught prevails._ Herbs, oils of Inde, alas, there naught prevails! Shut are the day-bright eyes that made me see; Lock'd are the gems of joy in dens of death. Yet triumph I on fate, and he on her: Malicious mistress of inconstancy, Damn'd be thy name, that hast obscur'd my joy.-- Kings, viceroys, princes, rear a royal tomb For my Remilia; bear her from my sight, Whilst I in tears weep for Remilia. [_They bear_ REMILIA'S _body out._ _Radag._ What maketh Rasni moody? loss of one? As if no more were left so fair as she. Behold a dainty minion for the nonce,-- Fair Alvida, the Paphlagonian queen: Woo her, and leave this weeping for the dead. _Rasni._ What, woo my subject's wife that honoureth me! _Radag._ Tut, kings this _meum, tuum_ should not know: Is she not fair? is not her husband hence? Hold, take her at the hands of Radagon; A pretty peat[77] to drive your mourn away. _Rasni._ She smiles on me, I see she is mine own.-- Wilt thou be Rasni's royal paramour? _Radag._ She blushing yields consent.--Make no dispute: The king is sad, and must be gladded straight; Let Paphlagonian king go mourn meanwhile. [_Thrusts_ RASNI _and_ ALVIDA _out; and so they all exeunt._] _Oseas._ Pride hath his judgment: London, look about; 'Tis not enough in show to be devout. A fury now from heaven to lands unknown Hath made the prophet speak, not to his own. Fly, wantons, fly this pride and vain attire, The seals to set your tender hearts on fire. Be faithful in the promise you have past, Else God will plague and punish at the last. When lust is hid in shroud of wretched life, When craft doth dwell in bed of married wife, Mark but the prophet's word that shortly shows.[78] After death expect for many woes. SCENE II.--_A Court of Justice in Nineveh._ _Enter_ ALCON _and_ THRASYBULUS, _with their_ Lawyer.