_Anton._ Oh, Macrinus! 'Twould linger out my torments else, not kill me, Which is the end I aim at: being to die too, What instrument more glorious can I wish for, Than what is made sharp by my constant love And true affection? It may be, the duty And loyal service, with which I pursued her, And seal'd it with my death, will be remember'd Among her blessed actions; and what honour Can I desire beyond it? _Enter a Guard bringing in_ DOROTHEA, _a Headsman before her; followed by_ THEOPHILUS, SAPRITIUS, _and_ HARPAX. See, she comes; How sweet her innocence appears! more like To heaven itself, than any sacrifice That can be offer'd to it. By my hopes Of joys hereafter, the sight makes me doubtful In my belief; nor can I think our gods Are good, or to be served, that take delight In offerings of this kind: that, to maintain Their power, deface the master-piece of nature, Which they themselves come short of. She ascends, And every step raises her nearer heaven. _Sap._ You are to blame To let him come abroad. _Mac._ It was his will; And we were left to serve him, not command him. _Anton._ Good sir, be not offended; nor deny My last of pleasures in this happy object, That I shall e'er be blest with. _Theoph._ Now, proud contemner Of us, and of our gods, tremble to think, It is not in the Power thou serv'st to save thee. Not all the riches of the sea, increased By violent shipwrecks, nor the unsearch'd mines, (Mammon's unknown exchequer), shall redeem thee: And, therefore, having first with horror weigh'd What 'tis to die, and to die young; to part with All pleasures and delights; lastly, to go Where all antipathies to comfort dwell, Furies behind, about thee, and before thee; And, to add to affliction, the remembrance Of the Elysian joys thou might'st have tasted, Hadst thou not turn'd apostata[49] to those gods That so reward their servants; let despair Prevent the hangman's sword, and on this scaffold Make thy first entrance into hell. _Anton._ She smiles, Unmoved, by Mars! as if she were assured Death, looking on her constancy, would forget The use of his inevitable hand. _Theoph._ Derided too! despatch, I say.