The. Sir.
We have no need of you. I pray you, go. [Kneels by bed]
He will forgive, then I will die with thee!
Phil. Nay, by the gods, should you so die, my maid,
Then Sicil' will have groaning cause 'gainst one
Who robs her country to make rich her grave.
Immortal Beauty must herself go wronged
Should you so break her living mould in you,
And drain her veins to your fair body trusted
For warm and deathless passage.