_Fel._ No, in her arms my sanctuary's placed; Thus I will cling for ever to her waist. [_Running to her daughter._ _Max._ What, must my will by women be controuled? Haste, draw your weapons, and cut off her hold! _S. Cath._ Thus my last duty to you let me pay: [_Kissing her mother._ Yet, tyrant, I to thee will never pray. Tho' hers to save I my own life would give, Yet by my sin my mother shall not live. To thy foul lust I never can consent; Why dost thou then defer my punishment? I scorn those Gods thou vainly dost adore; Contemn thy empire, but thy bed abhor. If thou would'st yet a bloodier tyrant be, I will instruct thy rage; begin with me. _Max._ I thank thee that thou dost my anger move; It is a tempest that will wreck my love. I'll pull thee hence, close hidden as thou art, [_Claps his hand to his breast._ And stand with my drawn sword before my heart. Yes, you shall be obeyed, though I am loth;-- Go, and while I can bid you, bind them both; Go, bind them ere my fit of love return; Fire shall quench fire, and anger love shall burn. Thus I prevent those follies I should do; And 'tis the nobler fever of the two. _Fel._ Torn piece by piece! alas, what horrid pains! _S. Cath._ Heaven is all mercy, who that death ordains; And that, which heaven thinks best, is surely so: But bare, and naked, shame to undergo, 'Tis somewhat more than death! Exposed to lawless eyes I dare not be; My modesty is sacred, heaven, to thee! Let not my body be the tyrant's spoil; Nor hands nor eyes thy purity defile. [AMERIEL _descends swiftly with a flaming sword, and strikes at the Wheel, which breaks in pieces; then he ascends again._ _Max._ Is this the effect of all your boasted skill? These brittle toys to execute my will? A puppet-shew of death I only find, Where I a strong and sinewy pain designed. By what weak infant was this engine wrought? _Val._ From Bilbilis the tempered steel was brought; Metal more tough the anvil ne'er did beat, Nor, from the forge, did hissing waters heat. _Plac._ I saw a youth descend all heavenly fair, Who in his hand a flaming sword did bear, And, whirlwind-like, around him drove the air. At his raised arm the rigid iron shook, And, bending backwards, fled before the stroke. _Max._ What! miracles, the tricks of heaven to me? I'll try if she be wholly iron free. If not by sword, then she shall die by fire; And one by one her miracles I'll tire. If proof against all kind of death she be; My love's immortal, and she's fit for me.