_Theoph._ As ever I deserved your favour, hear me, And grant one boon; 'tis not for life I sue for; Nor is it fit that I, that ne'er knew pity To any Christian, being one myself, Should look for any; no, I rather beg The utmost of your cruelty. I stand Accomptable for thousand Christians' deaths; And, were it possible that I could die A day for every one, then live again To be again tormented, 'twere to me An easy penance, and I should pass through A gentle cleansing fire; but, that denied me, It being beyond the strength of feeble nature, My suit is, you would have no pity on me. In mine own house there are a thousand engines Of studied cruelty, which I did prepare For miserable Christians; let me feel, As the Sicilian did his brazen bull[58], The horrid'st you can find; and I will say, In death, that you are merciful. _Diocle._ Despair not; In this thou shalt prevail. Go fetch them hither: [_Exit some of the Guard._ Death shall put on a thousand shapes at once, And so appear before thee; racks, and whips!---- Thy flesh, with burning pincers torn, shall feed The fire that heats them; and what's wanting to The torture of thy body, I'll supply In punishing thy mind. Fetch all the Christians That are in hold; and here, before his face, Cut them in pieces. _Theoph._ 'Tis not in thy power: It was the first good deed I ever did. They are removed out of thy reach; howe'er, I was determined for my sins to die, I first took order for their liberty; And still I dare thy worst. _Re-enter Guard with racks and other instruments of torture._ _Diocle._ Bind him, I say; Make every artery and sinew crack: The slave that makes him give the loudest shriek, Shall have ten thousand drachmas: wretch! I'll force thee To curse the Power thou worship'st. _Theoph._ Never, never: No breath of mine shall e'er be spent on Him, [_They torment him._ But what shall speak His majesty or mercy. I'm honour'd in my sufferings. Weak tormentors, More tortures, more:--alas! you are unskilful-- For heaven's sake more; my breast is yet untorn: Here purchase the reward that was propounded. The irons cool,--here are arms yet, and thighs; Spare no part of me. _Max._ He endures beyond The sufferance of a man. _Sap._ No sigh nor groan, To witness he hath feeling. _Diocle._ Harder, villains! _Enter_ HARPAX. _Harp._ Unless that he blaspheme, he's lost for ever. If torments ever could bring forth despair, Let these compel him to it:--Oh me! My ancient enemies again! [_Falls down._ _Enter_ DOROTHEA _in a white robe, a crown upon her head, led in by_ ANGELO; ANTONINUS, CALISTA, _and_ CHRISTETA _following, all in white, but less glorious_; ANGELO _holds out a crown to_ THEOPHILUS.