Bac. You’ve only breath’d a Vein, and given me new Health and Vigour by it.
They fight again, Wounds on both sides, the King staggers; Bacon takes him in his Arms; the King drops his Sword.
How do you, Sir?
King. Like one—that’s hovering between Heaven and Earth; I’m—mounting—somewhere—upwards—but giddy with my flight,—I know not where.
Bac. Command my Surgeons,—instantly—make haste;
Honour returns, and Love all bleeding’s fled. Ex. Fearless.
King. Oh, Semernia, how much more Truth had thy Divinity than the Predictions of the flattering Oracles! Commend me to her—I know you’ll—visit—your fair Captive, Sir, and tell her—oh—but Death prevents the rest. Dies.
Enter Fearless.
Bac. He’s gone—and now, like Cæsar, I could weep over the Hero I my self destroyed.
Fear. I’m glad for your repose I see him there—’twas a mad hot-brain’d Youth, and so he died.