King. Shall I not see another day?
Death. Not one. To judgment come with me.
King. Oh, grant me but one little hour!
Death. To grant aught is not in my power.
King. Have patience but three words to hear.
Death. Patience ’s an herb[62] which grows not here.
Angel. The King upon his couch down sinks:
His haughty form all helpless shrinks;
To ashy white has turned his lip.
Both rich and poor the strangler thus