Phil. Why, what's the matter?
Grim. Oh, I am ensnared;
Heaven's birdlime wraps me round, and glues my wings.
Loose me, and I will free thee:
Do, and I'll be thy slave.
Phil. What, to a spy, a name abhorred in hell?
Grim. Do not insult!—Oh, Oh, I grow to ground;
The fiery net draws closer on my limbs.
Phil. Thou shalt not have the ease to curse in torments.
Be dumb for one half hour,—so long my charm