Abd. Most sure, if she be not knockt oth'head: give me the Lanthorn,
Here 'tis, how is this, the stone off?
Roc. I, and nothing
Within the monument, that's worse; no body
I am sure of that, nor sign of any here,
But an empty Coffin.
Mount. No Lady?
Roc. No, nor Lord Sir,
This Pye has been cut up before.
Abd. Either the Devil
Must do these tricks—
Mount. Or thou, damn'd one, worse;
Thou black swoln pitchy cloud, of all my afflictions:
Thou night hag, gotten when the bright Moon suffer'd:
Thou hell it self confin'd in flesh: what trick now?
Tell me, and tell me quickly what thy mischief
Has done with her, and to what end, and whether
Thou hast remov'd her body, or by this holy place
This Sword shall cut thee into thousand pieces,
A thousand thousand, strow thee ore the Temple
A sacrifice to thy black sire, the Devil.
Ro[c]. Tell him, you see he's angry.
Abd. Let him burst,
Neither his sword, nor anger do I shake at,
Nor will yield to feed his poor suspitions,
His idle jealousies, and mad dogs heats
One thought against my self: ye have done a brave deed;
A manly, and a valiant piece of Service:
When ye have kill'd me, reckon't amongst your Battels;
I am sorry ye are so poor, so weak a Gentleman,
Able to stand no fortune: I dispose of her?
My mischief make her away? a likely project,
I must play booty against my self, if any thing cross ye,
I am the devil, and the devils heir,
All plagues, all mischiefs.
Mount. Will ye leave and do yet?
Ab. I have done too much,
Far, far too much, for such a thankless fellow,
If I be devil, you created me;
I never knew those arts, nor bloody practises
(—— o'your cunning heart, that mine of mischief)
Before your flatteries won 'em into me.
Here did I leave her, leave her with that certainty
About this hour to wake again.