_Artem._ Threaten not, but strike: quick vengeance flies Into my bosom; caitiff! here all love dies. [_Exeunt above._ _Anton._ O! I am thunderstruck! We are both o'erwhelm'd---- _Mac._ With one high-raging billow. _Dor._ You a soldier, And sink beneath the violence of a woman! _Anton._ A woman! a wrong'd princess. From such a star Blazing with fires of hate, what can be look'd for, But tragical events? my life is now The subject of her tyranny. _Dor._ That fear is base, Of death, when that death doth but life displace Out of her house of earth; you only dread The stroke, and not what follows when you're dead; There's the great fear, indeed: come, let your eyes Dwell where mine do, you'll scorn their tyrannies. _Re-enter below_, ARTEMIA, SAPRITIUS, THEOPHILUS, _a guard_; ANGELO _comes and stands close by_ DOROTHEA. _Artem._ My father's nerves put vigour in mine arm, And I his strength must use. Because I once Shed beams of favour on thee, and, with the lion, Play'd with thee gently, when thou struck'st my heart, I'll not insult on a base, humbled prey, By lingering out thy terrors; but, with one frown, Kill thee:--hence with them all to execution. Seize him; but let even death itself be weary In torturing her. I'll change those smiles to shrieks; Give the fool what she's proud of, martyrdom: In pieces rack that pander. [_Points to_ MACR. _Sap._ Albeit the reverence I owe our gods and you, are, in my bosom, Torrents so strong, that pity quite lies drown'd From saving this young man; yet, when I see What face death gives him, and that a thing within me Says, 'tis my son, I am forced to be a man, And grow fond of his life, which thus I beg. _Artem._ And I deny. _Anton._ Sir, you dishonour me, To sue for that which I disclaim to have. I shall more glory in my sufferings gain, Than you in giving judgment, since I offer My blood up to your anger; nor do I kneel To keep a wretched life of mine from ruin: Preserve this temple, builded fair as yours is, And Cæsar never went in greater triumph, Than I shall to the scaffold. _Artem._ Are you so brave, sir? Set forward to his triumph, and let those two Go cursing along with him. _Dor._ No, but pitying, For my part, I, that you lose ten times more By torturing me, than I that dare your tortures: Through all the army of my sins, I have even Labour'd to break, and cope with death to the face. The visage of a hangman frights not me; The sight of whips, racks, gibbets, axes, fires, Are scaffoldings by which my soul climbs up To an eternal habitation.