Theoph. What's the matter?
Sap. This is prodigious, and confirms her witchcraft.
Theoph. Harpax, my Harpax, speak!
Harp. I dare not stay:
Should I but hear her once more, I were lost.
Some whirlwind snatch me from this cursed place,
To which compared, (and with what now I suffer,)
Hell's torments are sweet slumbers! [Exit.
Sap. Follow him.
Theoph. He is distracted, and I must not lose him.
Thy charms upon my servant, cursed witch,
Give thee a short reprieve. Let her not die,
Till my return. [Exeunt Sap. and Theoph.
Anton. She minds him not; what object
Is her eye fix'd on?
Mac. I see nothing.
Anton. Mark her.
Dor. Thou glorious minister of the Power I serve!
(For thou art more than mortal,) is 't for me,
Poor sinner, thou art pleased awhile to leave
Thy heavenly habitation, and vouchsafest,
Though glorified, to take my servant's habit?—
For, put off thy divinity, so look'd
My lovely Angelo.