Your oyl's spent, and your snuff stinks: go out basely.
[Exit.
Sep. The King will yet consider.
Enter Ptolomy, Achoreus, Photinus.
Achil. Here he comes Sir.
Ach. Yet if it be undone: hear me great Sir,
If this inhumane stroak be yet unstrucken,
If that adored head be not yet sever'd
From the most noble Body, weigh the miseries,
The desolations that this great Eclipse works,