_Mac._ I have been His keeper in this sickness, with such eyes As I have seen my mother watch o'er me. Stand by his pillow, and, in his broken slumbers, Him shall you hear cry out on Dorothea; And, when his arms fly open to catch her, Closing together, he falls fast asleep, Pleased with embracings of her airy form. Physicians but torment him; his disease Laughs at their gibberish language: let him hear The voice of Dorothea, nay, but the name, He starts up with high colour in his face: She, or none, cures him; and how that can be, The princess' strict command barring that happiness, To me impossible seems. _Sap._ To me it shall not; I'll be no subject to the greatest Cæsar Was ever crown'd with laurel, rather than cease To be a father. [_Exit._ _Mac._ Silence, sir; he wakes. _Anton._ Thou kill'st me, Dorothea; oh, Dorothea! _Mac._ She's here _Anton._ Here! Where? Why do you mock me, sir? Age on my head hath stuck no white hairs yet, Yet I'm an old man, a fond doting fool Upon a woman. I, to buy her beauty, (In truth I am bewitch'd) offer my life, And she, for my acquaintance, hazards hers: Yet, for our equal sufferings, none holds out A hand of pity. _1 Doct._ Let him have some music. _Anton._ Hell on your fiddling! [_Starting from his couch._ _1 Doct._ Take again your bed, sir; Sleep is a sovereign physic. _Anton._ Confusion on your fooleries! Where's the rest Thy pills and base apothecary drugs Threaten'd to bring unto me? Out, you impostors! Quacksalving, cheating mountebanks! your skill Is to make sound men sick, and sick men kill. _Mac._ Oh, be yourself, dear friend. _Anton._ Myself, Macrinus! How can I be myself, when I am mangled Into a thousand pieces? here moves my head, But where's my heart? wherever--that lies dead. _Re-enter_ SAPRITIUS, _dragging in_ DOROTHEA _by the hair_, ANGELO _following_. _Sap._ Follow me, thou damn'd sorceress! Call up thy spirits, And, if they can, now let them from my hand Untwine these witching hairs. _Anton._ I am that spirit: Or, if I be not, were you not my father, One made of iron should hew that hand in pieces, That so defaces this sweet monument Of my love's beauty. _Sap._ Art thou sick? _Anton._ To death. _Sap._ Would'st thou recover? _Anton._ Would I live in bliss! _Sap._ And do thine eyes shoot daggers at that man That brings thee health? _Anton._ It is not in the world. _Sap._ It's here. _Anton._ To treasure, by enchantment lock'd In caves as deep as hell, am I as near. _1 Doct._ Shall the boy stay, sir? _Sap._ No matter for the boy. [_Exeunt_ SAP. MAC. _and Doct._ _Dor._ O, guard me, angels! What tragedy must begin now? _Anton._ When a tiger Leaps into a timorous herd, with ravenous jaws, Being hunger-starved, what tragedy then begins?