Mac. We are betray'd.
Artem. Is that the idol, traitor, which thou kneel'st to,
Trampling upon my beauty?
Theoph. Sirrah, bandog[42]!
Wilt thou in pieces tear our Jupiter
For her? our Mars for her? our Sol for her?
Artem. Threaten not, but strike: quick vengeance flies
Into my bosom; caitiff! here all love dies.
[Exeunt above.
Anton. O! I am thunderstruck! We are both o'erwhelm'd——
Mac. With one high-raging billow.
Dor. You a soldier,
And sink beneath the violence of a woman!
Anton. A woman! a wrong'd princess. From such a star
Blazing with fires of hate, what can be look'd for,
But tragical events? my life is now
The subject of her tyranny.
Dor. That fear is base,
Of death, when that death doth but life displace
Out of her house of earth; you only dread
The stroke, and not what follows when you're dead;
There's the great fear, indeed: come, let your eyes
Dwell where mine do, you'll scorn their tyrannies.
Re-enter below, Artemia, Sapritius, Theophilus, a guard; Angelo comes and stands close by Dorothea.