Make of the Trophies of the War a Pile, and set it all on fire, that I may leap into consuming Flames—while all my Tents are burning round about me. Wildly.
Oh thou dear Prize, for which alone I toil’d! Weeps, and lies down by her.
Enter Fearless with his Sword drawn.
Fear. Hah, on the Earth—how do you, Sir?
Bac. What wou’dst thou?
Fear. Wellman with all the Forces he can gather, attacks us even in our very Camp; assist us, Sir, or all is lost.
Bac. Why, prithee let him make the World his Prize, I have no business with the Trifle now; it contains nothing that’s worth my care, since my fair Queen—is dead—and by my hand.
Queen. So charming and obliging is thy Moan, that I cou’d wish for Life to recompense it; but oh, Death falls—all cold upon my Heart, like Mildews on the Blossoms.
Fear. By Heaven, Sir, this Love will ruin all—rise, rise, and save us yet.
Bac. Leave me, what e’er becomes of me—lose not thy share of Glory—prithee leave me.