Attending here till death conclude our woes.
Diom. I will obey your will. Cl. So the desert
The Gods repay of thy true faithfull heart.
Diomed.
And is’t not pittie, Gods, ah Gods of heau’n!
To see from loue such hatefull frutes to spring?
And is’t not pittie that this firebrand so
Laies waste the trophes of Philippi fieldes?
Where are those swete allurements, those swete lookes,
Which Gods themselues right hart-sicke would haue made?