Phi. Art thou true to me?
Bell. Or let me perish loath'd. Come my good Lord, Creep in amongst those bushes: who does know But that the gods may save your (much lov'd) breath?
Phi. Then I shall die for grief, if not for this, That I have wounded thee: what wilt thou do?
Bell. Shift for my self well: peace, I hear 'em come.
Within. Follow, follow, follow; that way they went.
Bell. With my own wounds I'le bloudy my own sword. I need not counterfeit to fall; Heaven knows, That I can stand no longer.
Enter Pha. Dion, Cle. and Thra.
Pha. To this place we have tract him by his bloud.
Cle. Yonder, my Lord, creeps one away.
Di. Stay Sir, what are you?