Theoph. My fruit!
Does this offend thee? see! [Eats again.
Harp. Spit it to the earth,
And tread upon it, or I'll piecemeal tear thee.
Theoph. Art thou with this affrighted? see, here's more. [Pulls out a handful of flowers.
Harp. Fling them away, I'll take thee else, and hang thee
In a contorted chain of icicles,
In the frigid zone: down with them!
Theoph. At the bottom
One thing I found not yet. See!
[Holds up a cross of flowers.
Harp. Oh! I am tortured.
Theoph. Can this do 't? hence, thou fiend infernal, hence!
Harp. Clasp Jupiter's image, and away with that.
Theoph. At thee I'll fling that Jupiter; for, methinks,
I serve a better master: he now checks me
For murdering my two daughters, put on[55] by thee.
By thy damn'd rhetoric did I hunt the life
Of Dorothea, the holy virgin-martyr.
She is not angry with the axe, nor me,
But sends these presents to me; and I'll travel
O'er worlds to find her, and from her white hand
Beg a forgiveness.
Harp. No; I'll bind thee here.