_Dor._ Death; I am happy so: you, hitherto, Have still had goodness sphered within your eyes; Let not that orb be broken. _Ang._ Fear not, mistress; If he dare offer violence, we two Are strong enough for such a sickly man. _Dor._ What is your horrid purpose, sir? your eye Bears danger in it. _Anton._ I must---- _Dor._ Oh, kill me, [_Kneels._ And heaven will take it as a sacrifice; But, if you play the ravisher, there is A hell to swallow you. _Anton._ Rise:--for the Roman empire, Dorothea, I would not wound thine honour. My father's will Would have me seize upon you, as my prey; Which I abhor, as much as the blackest sin The villany of man did ever act. [SAPRITIUS _breaks in with_ MACRINUS. _Dor._ Die happy for this language! _Sap._ Die a slave, A blockish idiot! _Mac._ Dear sir, vex him not. _Sap._ Yes, and vex thee too: where's this lamia[46]? _Dor._ I'm here; do what you please. _Sap._ Spurn her to the bar. _Dor._ Come, boy, being there, more near to heaven we are. _Sap._ Kick harder; go out, witch! [_Exeunt._ _Anton._ O bloody hangmen! Thine own gods give thee breath! Each of thy tortures is my several death. [_Exit._ FOOTNOTE: [46] _Lamia_,] i. e. _sorceress_, _hag_. The word is pure Latin. SCENE II.[47] _The Place of Execution. A scaffold, block, &c._ _Enter_ ANTONINUS, _supported by_ MACRINUS, _and Servants_. _Anton._ Is this the place, where virtue is to suffer, And heavenly beauty, leaving this base earth, To make a glad return from whence it came? Is it, Macrinus? _Mac._ By this preparation, You well may rest assured that Dorothea This hour is to die here. _Anton._ Then with her dies The abstract of all sweetness that's in woman! Set me down, friend, that, ere the iron hand Of death close up mine eyes, they may at once Take my last leave both of this light and her: For, she being gone, the glorious sun himself To me's Cimmerian darkness. _Mac._ Strange affection[48]! Cupid once more hath changed his shafts with Death, And kills, instead of giving life. _Anton._ Nay, weep not; Though tears of friendship be a sovereign balm, On me they're cast away. It is decreed That I must die with her; our clue of life Was spun together. _Mac._ Yet, sir, 'tis my wonder, That you, who, hearing only what she suffers, Partake of all her tortures, yet will be, To add to your calamity, an eyewitness Of her last tragic scene, which must pierce deeper, And make the wound more desperate.