Anton. Myself, Macrinus!
How can I be myself, when I am mangled
Into a thousand pieces? here moves my head,
But where's my heart? wherever—that lies dead.
Re-enter Sapritius, dragging in Dorothea by the hair, Angelo following.
Sap. Follow me, thou damn'd sorceress! Call up thy spirits,
And, if they can, now let them from my hand
Untwine these witching hairs.
Anton. I am that spirit:
Or, if I be not, were you not my father,
One made of iron should hew that hand in pieces,
That so defaces this sweet monument
Of my love's beauty.
Sap. Art thou sick?
Anton. To death.
Sap. Would'st thou recover?
Anton. Would I live in bliss!
Sap. And do thine eyes shoot daggers at that man
That brings thee health?
Anton. It is not in the world.