_Harp._ They merit death; but, falling by your hand, 'Twill be recorded for a just revenge, And holy fury in you. _Theoph._ Do not blow The furnace of a wrath thrice hot already; Ætna is in my breast, wildfire burns here, Which only blood must quench. Incensed Power! Which from my infancy I have adored, Look down with favourable beams upon The sacrifice, though not allow'd thy priest, Which I will offer to thee; and be pleased, My fiery zeal inciting me to act, To call that justice others may style murder. Come, you accursed, thus by the hair I drag you Before this holy altar; thus look on you, Less pitiful than tigers to their prey: And thus, with mine own hand, I take that life Which I gave to you. [_Kills them._ _Dor._ O most cruel butcher! _Theoph._ My anger ends not here: hell's dreadful porter, Receive into thy ever-open gates Their damned souls, and let the Furies' whips On them alone be wasted; and, when death Closes these eyes, 'twill be Elysium to me To hear their shrieks and howlings. Make me, Pluto, Thy instrument to furnish thee with souls Of that accursed sect; nor let me fall, Till my fell vengeance hath consumed them all. [_Exit, with_ HARPAX. _Artem._ 'Tis a brave zeal. _Enter_ ANGELO, _smiling_. _Dor._ Oh, call him back again, Call back your hangman! here's one prisoner left To be the subject of his knife. _Artem._ Not so; We are not so near reconciled unto thee; Thou shalt not perish such an easy way. Be she your charge, Sapritius, now; and suffer None to come near her, till we have found out Some torments worthy of her. _Ang._ Courage, mistress; These martyrs but prepare your glorious fate: You shall exceed them, and not imitate. [_Exeunt._ FOOTNOTE: [45] _The pillars of our_ faith, &c.] Here, as in many other places, the language of Christianity and paganism is confounded: _faith_ was always the distinctive term for the former, in opposition to heathenism.--GIFFORD. ACT IV. SCENE I. _The Governor's Palace._ ANTONINUS _on a couch, asleep, with Doctors about him_; SAPRITIUS _and_ MACRINUS. _Sap._ O you, that are half gods, lengthen that life Their deities lend us; turn o'er all the volumes Of your mysterious Æsculapian science, T' increase the number of this young man's days: And, for each minute of his time prolong'd, Your fee shall be a piece of Roman gold With Cæsar's stamp, such as he sends his captains When in the wars they earn well: do but save him, And, as he's half myself, be you all mine. _1 Doct._ What art can do, we promise; physic's hand As apt is to destroy as to preserve, If heaven make not the med'cine: all this while, Our skill hath combat held with his disease; But 'tis so arm'd, and a deep melancholy, To be such in part with death, we are in fear The grave must mock our labours.