d all the ground under my heeles quak't like a Bogge.

_King_. Deluded slaves! these are turn'd Christians, too.

_Epi_. The prisoners in my Iayle will not say so.

_Clown_. Turnd Christians! it has ever beene my profession to fang[175]
and clutch and to squeeze: I was first a Varlet[176], then a Bumbaily,
now an under Iailor. Turn'd Christian!

_King_. Breake up the Iron passage of the Cave
And if the sorceresse live teare her in pieces.

_The Angel ascends agen_.

_Epi_. See, 'tis come agen.

_King_. It staggers me.

_Omnes_. Amazement! looke to the King.

ANGEL SINGS.

_She comes, she comes, she comes!
No banquets are so sweete as Martyrdomes.
She comes!_

(_Angel descends_.)

_Anton_. 'Tis vanish'd, Sir, agen.

_Dam_. Meere Negromancy.

_Cosmo_. This is the apparition of some divell
Stealing a glorious shape, and cryes 'she comes'!

_Clown_. If all divels were no worse, would I were amongst 'em.

_King_. Our power is mockt by magicall impostures;
They shall not mock our tortures. Let _Eugenius_
And _Bellizarius_ fright away these shadowes
Rung from sharp tortures: drag them hither.

_Epi_. To th'stake?

_Clown_. As Beares are?

_King_. And upon your lives
My longings feast with her, though her base limbes
Be in a thousand pieces.

_Clown_. She shall be gathered up.

[_Exit. Epid. and Clowne_.

(_Victoria rises out of the cave, white_.)

_Vict_. What's the Kings will? I am here.
Are your tormentors ready to give battaile?
I am ready for them, and though I lose
My life hope to winne the day.

_King_. What art thou?

_Vict_. An armed Christian.

_King_. What's thy name?

_Vict_. _Victoria_: in my name there's conquest writ:
I therefore feare no threat[e]nings! but pray
That thou maist dye a good king.

_Omnes_. This is not she, Sir.

_King_. It is, but on her brow some Deity sits.
What are those Fayries dressing up her haire,
Whilst sweeter spirits dancing in her eyes
Bewitcheth me to them?

_Enter Epidophorus, Bellizarius, Eugenius, and Clowne_.

Oh _Victoria_, love me!
And see, thy Husband, now a slave whose life
Hangs at a needles poynt, shall live, so thou
Breath but the doome.--Trayters! what sorcerous hand
Has built upon this inchantment of a Christian
To make me doat upon the beauty of it?
How comes she to this habite? Went she thus in?

_Epi_. No, Sir, mine owne hande stript her into rags.