Euph. And pointed at with fingers as they go.
Cl. Rather a thousand deaths. Euph. Lastly his knife
Some cruell caytiue in their bloud embrue.
Cl. Ah my heart breaks. By shadie bankes of hell,
By fieldes wheron the lonely Ghosts do treade,
By my soule, and the soule of Antonie
I you beseche, Euphron, of them haue care.
Be their good Father, let your wisedome lett
That they fall not into this Tyrants handes.
Rather conduct them where their freezed locks