_Clown_. For any meat shee has eaten her face needes not make you doate;
and for cleane linen Ile sweare it was not brought into the Iaile, for
there they scorne to shift once a weeke.

_King_. _Bellizarius_, woe thy wife that she would love me,
And thou shalt live.

_Belliz_. I will.--_Victoria_,
By all those chaste fires kindled in our bosomes
Through which pure love shin'd on our marriage night;
Nay, with a bolder conjuration,
By all those thornes and bryers which thy soft feet
Tread boldly on to finde a path to heaven,
I begge of thee, even on my knee I beg,
That thou wouldst love this King, take him by th'hand,
Warme his in thine, and hang about his necke,
And seale ten thousand kisses on his cheeke,
So he will tread his false gods under foote.

_Omnes_. Oh, horrible!

_King_. Bring tortures.

_Belliz_. So he will wash his soule white, as we doe,
And fight under our Banner (bloody red),
And hand in hand with us walke martyred.

_Anton_. They mocke you.

_King_. Stretch his body up by th'armes,
And at his feete hang plummets.

_Clown_. He shall be well shod for stroveling, I warrant you.

_Cosmo_. _Eugenius_, bow thy knee before our _Jove_,
And the King gives thee mercy.

_Dam_. Else stripes and death.

_Eugen_. We come into the world but at one doore,
But twenty thousand gates stand open wide
To give us passage hence: death then is easie,
And I defie all tortures.

_King_. Then fasten the Cative;
I care not for thy wife: Get from mine eyes
Thou tempting _Lamia_. But, _Bellizarius_,
Before thy bodyes frame be puld in pieces,
Wilt thou forsake the errours thou art drencht in?

_Belliz_. Errours? thou blasphemous and godlesse man,
From the great Axis maist thou as easie
With one arme plucke the Universall Globe,
As from my Center move me. There's my figure;
They are waves that beat a rock insensible
With an infatigable patience.
My breast dares all your arrowes; shoote,--shoote, all;
Your tortures are but struck against the wall,
Which, backe rebounding, hit your selves.

_King_. Up with him.

_Belliz_. Lay on more waights; that hangman which more brings
Addes active feathers to my soaring wings.

(_They draw him up_.)

_King_. _Victoria_, yet save him.

_Vict_. Keepe on thy flight,
And be a bird of Paradise.

_Omnes_. Give him more Irons.

_Belliz_. More, more.

_King_. Let him then goe; love thou and be my Queene,
Daine but to love me.

_Vict_