Em. Do, strike, barbarian, strike;
And strew my mangled limbs, with every stroke.
Wound me, and doubly kill me, with unkindness,
That by thy hand I fell.
Arth. What shall I do, ye powers?
Em. Lay down thy vengeful sword; 'tis fatal here:
What need of arms, where no defence is made?
A love-sick virgin, panting with desire,
No conscious eye to intrude on our delights:
For this thou hast the Syrens' songs despised;