Hell will give him what he wants on Earth:
And yet, my Lord, it troubles me for you,
Since my Place binds me to secure your Person,
To answer Law for all your Rage has done.

_Anto._ Shame almost stops my mouth; yet, Captain, know
My wound won't give me time for that misfortune;
Stay but a little, let me fix my Eyes
On what lies here, for that alone would give me
A sudden Death, had I no other hurt.
I dare not hope for Heav'n, having done
So black a Murder on such Innocence,
And yet I do believe her Charity
As it did dying, still doth beg that Pardon
Might from above be granted to my soul,
Which if I miss, as I have cause to fear,
Then sure I shall be turn'd into a Devil
For ever to Torment his Cursed soul
That led me to these mischiefs.
'Twould be some ease, if Heaven but granted that,
But I begin to faint! Oh, Blessed Soul
Dart forth one Beam of Light, to guide the way,
Or I shall always wander in the dark.
Night seizes me already: yet from hence
In spight of death my soul shall take her flight,
Go where I will, I thus set out a right.
[Dyes.

_Serv._ He's dead--

_Capt._ By dying so, at least he's thus far happy,
That he Escapes the Punishments of Tryal,
And the Exemplar death must have attended
Which to a man so Jealous of his Fame
As he was, would have been a Hell on Earth.
Your Duty to your Lord will keep you safe,
Yet you must to the Vice-Roy go with me
To be a Witness there of what hath happn'd,
The story else will seem Incredible.

_Serv._ I am ready, Sir, for all you shall Command.

_Capt._ Oh Jealousie, thou sickness of great souls,
To what a Rage didst thou transport this Lord?
For had his Wife been false it was not good
By Murd'ring her to drown himself in Blood;

_For Lust may be Excus'd since flesh is frail,
But Murder on the Soul does guilt Entail._

The Curtain Falls.

EPILOGUE

By Mr. _Harris_.

_A Tragedy, and not Heroick Verse,
The Comick part fit only for a Farse;
No Atheism, nor any man we know
Abus'd, no repartee, nor splendid show;
But very little Bawdy, and less wit,
The Devil's in't, crys one, is this Play hit.
Faith--may be not, and may be too it will,
For Chance sometimes exceeds all rules of skill.
As he who Rageing did his Pencil throw,
And Painted that by chance, he could not draw
For we have seen, and lately too, a Play
Cry'd down by those that cannot keep away
And when they come spight of themselves they stay.
And to our sorrow we have oth