_Dor._ Thou fool! That gloriest in having power to ravish A trifle from me I am weary of, What is this life to me? not worth a thought; Or, if it be esteem'd, 'tis that I lose it To win a better: even thy malice serves To me but as a ladder to mount up To such a height of happiness, where I shall Look down with scorn on thee, and on the world; Where, circled with true pleasures, placed above The reach of death or time, 'twill be my glory To think at what an easy price I bought it. There's a perpetual spring, perpetual youth: No joint-benumbing cold, or scorching heat, Famine, nor age, have any being there. Forget, for shame, your Tempe; bury in Oblivion your feign'd Hesperian orchards:-- The golden fruit, kept by the watchful dragon, Which did require a Hercules to get[50] it, Compared with what grows in all plenty there, Deserves not to be named. The Power I serve Laughs at your happy Araby, or the Elysian shades; for he hath made his bowers Better in deed, than you can fancy yours. _Anton._ O, take me thither with you! _Dor._ Trace my steps, And be assured you shall. _Sap._ With my own hands I'll rather stop that little breath is left thee, And rob thy killing fever. _Theoph._ By no means; Let him go with her: do, seduced young man, And wait upon thy saint in death; do, do: And, when you come to that imagined place, That place of all delights--pray you, observe me, And meet those cursed things I once call'd Daughters, Whom I have sent as harbingers before you; If there be any truth in your religion, In thankfulness to me, that with care hasten Your journey thither, pray you send me some Small pittance of that curious fruit you boast of. _Anton._ Grant that I may go with her, and I will. _Sap._ Wilt thou in thy last minute damn thyself? _Theoph._ The gates to hell are open. _Dor._ Know, thou tyrant, Thou agent for the devil, thy great master, Though thou art most unworthy to taste of it, I can, and will. _Enter_ ANGELO, _in the Angel's habit_[51]. _Harp._ Oh! mountains fall upon me, Or hide me in the bottom of the deep, Where light may never find me! _Theoph._ What's the matter? _Sap._ This is prodigious, and confirms her witchcraft. _Theoph._ Harpax, my Harpax, speak! _Harp._ I dare not stay: Should I but hear her once more, I were lost. Some whirlwind snatch me from this cursed place, To which compared, (and with what now I suffer,) Hell's torments are sweet slumbers! [_Exit._ _Sap._ Follow him. _Theoph._ He is distracted, and I must not lose him. Thy charms upon my servant, cursed witch, Give thee a short reprieve. Let her not die, Till my return. [_Exeunt_ SAP. _and_ THEOPH. _Anton._ She minds him not; what object Is her eye fix'd on? _Mac._ I see nothing. _Anton._ Mark her.