OLYMPIA. Death, whither art thou gone, that both we live? Come back again, sweet Death, and strike us both! One minute and our days, and one sepulchre Contain our bodies! Death, why com'st thou not Well, this must be the messenger for thee: [Drawing a dagger.] Now, ugly Death, stretch out thy sable wings, And carry both our souls where his remains.-- Tell me, sweet boy, art thou content to die? These barbarous Scythians, full of cruelty, And Moors, in whom was never pity found, Will hew us piecemeal, put us to the wheel, Or else invent some torture worse than that; Therefore die by thy loving mother's hand, Who gently now will lance thy ivory throat, And quickly rid thee both of pain and life. SON. Mother, despatch me, or I'll kill myself; For think you I can live and see him dead? Give me your knife, good mother, or strike home: [149] The Scythians shall not tyrannize on me: Sweet mother, strike, that I may meet my father. [She stabs him, and he dies.] OLYMPIA. Ah, sacred Mahomet, if this be sin, Entreat a pardon of the God of heaven, And purge my soul before it come to thee! [She burns the bodies of her HUSBAND and SON, and then attempts to kill herself.] Enter THERIDAMAS, TECHELLES, and all their train. THERIDAMAS. How now, madam! what are you doing? OLYMPIA. Killing myself, as I have done my son, Whose body, with his father's, I have burnt, Lest cruel Scythians should dismember him. TECHELLES. 'Twas bravely done, and like a soldier's wife. Thou shalt with us to Tamburlaine the Great, Who, when he hears how resolute thou wert, [150] Will match thee with a viceroy or a king. OLYMPIA. My lord deceas'd was dearer unto me Than any viceroy, king, or emperor; And for his sake here will I end my days.