If you have any mercy, let me go
To prison, to my death, to any thing:
I feel a sin growing upon my blood,
Worse than all these, hotter than yours.
Arb.
That is impossible, what shou'd we do?
Pan.
Flie Sir, for Heavens sake.
Arb.
So we must away,
Sin grows upon us more by this delay.
[Exeunt several wayes.
Actus Quintus.
Enter Mardonius And Lygones.