Dem. O Heaven, that any tongue but his durst say this!
That any heart durst harbour it! Dread Father,
If for the innocent the gods allow us
To bend our knees—
Ant. Away, thou art bewitch'd still; Though she be dead, her power still lives upon thee.
Dem. Dead? O sacred Sir: dead did you say?
Ant. She is dead, fool.
Dem. It is not possible: be not so angry,
Say she is faln under your sad displeasure,
Or any thing but dead, say she is banished,
Invent a crime, and I'le believe it, Sir.
Ant. Dead by the Law: we found her Hell, and her,
I mean her Charms and Spells, for which she perish'd;
And she confest she drew thee to thy ruine,
And purpos'd it, purpos'd my Empires overthrow.
Dem. But is she dead? was there no pity Sir? If her youth err'd, was there no mercy shown her? Did ye look on her face, when ye condemn'd her?
Ant. I look'd into her heart, and there she was hideous.
Dem. Can she be dead? can vertue fall untimely?
Ant. She is dead, deservingly she died.