_Phil_. A gallant _Roman_, that fought by _Caesar’s_ side, Till all his Body cover’d o’er with Arrows, Shew’d like a monstrous Porcupine. _1 Sold_. And did he die, Sir? _Phil_. He wou’d not but have dy’d for Caesar’s Empire. _1 Sold_. Hah--why, Sir, I’m none of _Sceva_, but honest _Diego_, yet would as willingly die as he, but that I have a Wife and Children; and if I die they beg. _Phil_. For every drop of Blood which thou shalt lose, I’ll give thy Wife--a Diadem. _Sold_. Stark mad, as I am valiant! _Enter_ Card. _Officers and Soldiers_: Philip _offers to run on him, is held by_ Alonzo. _Phil_. Oh Heav’n! is not that the Cardinal? Traitor, how dar’st thou tempt my Rage, and Justice? _Card_. Your Pardon, Sir, I come in humble Love To offer happy Peace. _Phil_. Was that thy aim when base Retreat was sounded? Oh, thou false Cardinal--let me go, _Alonzo_-- Death! offer happy Peace! no, offer War, Bring Fire and Sword--Hell and Damnation-Peace! Oh, damn your musty Peace--No, will you fight and cry, Down with the Moor! and then I’ll die in peace. I have a Heart, two Arms, a Soul, a Head, I’ll hazard these--I can but hazard all-- Come--I will kneel to thee--and be thy Slave-- [_Kneels_. I’ll let thee tread on me, do any thing, So this damn’d Moor may fall. _Card_. Yes, Sir, he shall-- _Phil_. Gods! shall he--thy noble Hand upon’t, And for this Promise, take my grateful Heart. [_Embraces him_. --Shall _Abdelazer_ fall? _Card_. Yes, upon thee-- Like the tall Ruins of a falling Tower, To crush thee into Dust-- [_As they embrace, the Guards seize him and the rest_. Traitor and Bastard, I arrest thee of High-Treason. _Phil_. Hah!--Traitor!--and Bastard--and from thee! [_They hold_ Philip’s _Hands_. _Card_. Guards, to your Hands the Prisoner is committed. There’s your Warrant--_Alonzo_, you are free. [_Ex_. Card. _Phil_. Prithee lend me one Hand--to wipe my Eyes, And see who ‘tis dares authorize this Warrant: --The Devil and his Dam!--the Moor and Queen! Their Warrant!--Gods! _Alonzo_, must we obey it? Villains, you cannot be my Jailors; there’s no Prison, No Dungeon deep enough; no Gate so strong, To keep a Man confin’d--so mad with Wrong. --Oh, dost thou weep, _Alonzo_? _Alon_. I wou’d fain shed a Tear, But from my Tears so many Show’rs are gone, They are too poor to pay your Sorrow’s Tribute; There is no Remedy, we must to Prison. _Phil_. Yes, and from thence to Death-- I thought I should have had a Tomb hung round With tatter’d Ensigns, broken Spears and Javelins; And that my Body, with a thousand Wounds, Shou’d have been borne on some triumphant Chariot, With solemn Mourning, Drums, and Trumpets sounding; Whilst all the wondring World with Grief and Envy, Had wish’d my glorious Destiny their own: But now, _Alonzo_--like a Beast I fall, And hardly Pity waits my Funeral.