I had skill
To call the winged musitians of the aire
Into these roomes! they all should play to thee
Till golden slumbers danc'd upon thy browes,
Watching to close thine eye-lids.

_Ang_. These Starres must shine no more; soule, flye away.
Tyrant, enioy but a cold lumpe of clay.

_King_. My charmes worke; shee sleepes,
And lookes more lovely now she sleepes.
Against she wakes, Invention, grow thou poore,
Studying to finde a banquet which the gods
Might be invited to. I need not court her now
For a poor kisse; her lips are friendly now,
And with the warme breath sweeting all the Aire,
Draw mee thus to them.--Ha! the lips of Winter
Are not so cold.

_Anton_. She's dead, Sir.

_King_. Dead?

_Dam_. As frozen as if the North-winde had in spight
Snatcht her hence from you.

_King_. Oh; I have murthered her!
Perfumes some creature kill: she has so long
In that darke Dungeon suck't pestiferous breath,
The sweete has stifled her. Take hence the body,
Since me it hated it shall feele my hate:
Cast her into the fire; I have lost her,
And for her sake all Christians shall be lost
That subjects are to me: massacre all,
But thou, _Eugenius_, art the last shall fall
This day; and in mine eye, though it nere see more,
Call on thy helper which thou dost adore.

_A Thunder-bolt strikes him_.

_Omnes_. The King is strucke with thunder!

_Eugen_. Thankes, Divine Powers;
Yours be the triumph and the wonder ours.

_Anton_. Unbinde him till a new King fill the throne;
And he shall doome him.

_A Hubert, a Hubert, a Hubert_!

_Flourish: Enter Hubert, armed with shields and swords.
Bellina and a company of Souldiers with him_.

_Hub_. What meanes this cry, 'a Hubert'? Where's your King?

_Omnes_. Strucke dead by thunder.

_Hub_. So I heare; you see, then,
There is an arme more rigorous than your _Iove_,
An arme stretcht from above to beate down Gyants,
The mightiest Kings on _Earth_, for all their shoulders
Carry _Colossi_ heads: the memory
Of _Genzericks_ name dyes here: _Henricke_ gives buriall
To the successive glory of that race
Who had both voyce and title to the Crowne,
And meanes to guard it.--Who must now be King?

_Anton_. We know not till we call the Lords together.

_Hub_. What Lords?

_Cosmo_. Our selves and others.

_Hub_. Who makes you Lords?
The Tree upon whose boughs your honours grew,
Your Lordships and your lives, is falne to th'ground.

_Dam_. We stand