_Theoph._ [_aside to_ MACRINUS.] By Antoninus' soul, I do conjure you, And though not for religion, for his friendship, Without demanding what's the cause that moves me, Receive my signet:--By the power of this, Go to my prisons, and release all Christians, That are in fetters there by my command. _Mac._ But what shall follow? _Theoph._ Haste then to the port; You there shall find two tall ships ready rigg'd, In which embark the poor distressed souls, And bear them from the reach of tyranny. Enquire not whither you are bound: the Deity That they adore will give you prosperous winds, And make your voyage such, and largely pay for Your hazard, and your travail. Leave me here; There is a scene that I must act alone: Haste, good Macrinus; and the great God guide you! _Mac._ I'll undertake 't; there's something prompts me to it; 'Tis to save innocent blood, a saint-like act: And to be merciful has never been By moral men themselves esteem'd a sin. [_Exit._ _Diocle._ You know your charge? _Sap._ And will with care observe it. _Diocle._ For I profess he is not Cæsar's friend, That sheds a tear for any torture that A Christian suffers. Welcome, my best servant, My careful, zealous provost! thou hast toil'd To satisfy my will, though in extremes: I love thee for 't; thou art firm rock, no changeling. Prithee deliver, and for my sake do it, Without excess of bitterness, or scoffs, Before my brother and these kings, how took The Christian her death? _Theoph._ And such a presence, Though every private head in this large room Were circled round with an imperial crown, Her story will deserve, it is so full Of excellence and wonder. _Diocle._ Ha! how is this? _Theoph._ O! mark it, therefore, and with that attention, As you would hear an embassy from heaven By a wing'd legate; for the truth deliver'd, Both how, and what, this blessed virgin suffer'd, And Dorothea but hereafter named, You will rise up with reverence, and no more, As things unworthy of your thoughts, remember What the canonized Spartan ladies were, Which lying Greece so boasts of. Your own matrons, Your Roman dames, whose figures you yet keep As holy relics, in her history Will find a second urn: Gracchus' Cornelia, Paulina, that in death desired to follow Her husband Seneca, nor Brutus' Portia, That swallow'd burning coals to overtake him, Though all their several worths were given to one, With this is to be mention'd. _Max._ Is he mad? _Diocle._ Why, they did die, Theophilus, and boldly; This did no more.