Clar. He's dead,
And this wretch little better:
Do you stare upon your
Handy-work?
Leon. I am amaz'd.
Clar. Get o're the Garden wall, flye for your life,
But leave your sword behind; enquire not why:
I'le fashion something out of it, though I perish,
Shall make way for revenge.
Leon. These are the fruits
Of lust, Clarinda.
Puts the sword in Malfort's hand.
Clar. Hence, repenting Milk-sop. [Exit Leon.
Now 'tis too late. Lisanders sword, I that,
That is the Base I'le build on. So, I'le raise
The house. Help, murther, a most horrid
Murther. Monsieur Beronte, noble Dorilaus,
All buried in sleep? Aye me a murther,
A most unheard-of murther.
Enter Dorilaus as from bed.
Dor. More lights Knaves;
Beronte, Alcidon; more lights.
Enter Beronte, Alcidon, and Servants with lights.
Clar. By this I see too much.