Fortune. Kneel not to me: if Fortune list to frown,
You need not fall down, for she’ll spurn you down;
Arise! but, fools, on you I’ll triumph thus:
What have you gained by being covetous?
This prodigal purse did Fortune’s bounteous hand
Bestow on them, their riots made them poor,
And set these marks of miserable death
On all their pride, the famine of base gold
Hath made your souls to murder’s hands be sold,
Only to be called rich. But, idiots, see
The virtues to be fled, Fortune hath caused it so;
Those that will all devour, must all forego.
Athelst. Most sacred Goddess!
Fortune. Peace, you flatterer.
Thy tongue but heaps more vengeance on thy head.
Fortune is angry with thee, in thee burns
A greedy covetous fire, in Agripyne
Pride like a monarch revels, and those sins
Have led you blind-fold to your former shames,
But Virtue pardoned you, and so doth Fortune.
Athelst. and Agrip. All thanks to both your sacred deities.
Fortune. As for these metal-eaters, these base thieves,
Who rather than they would be counted poor,
Will dig through hell for gold,—you were forgiven
By Virtue’s general pardon; her broad seal
Gave you your lives, when she took off your horns.
Yet having scarce one foot out of the jail,
You tempt damnation by more desperate means,
You both are mortal, and your pains shall ring
Through both your ears, to terrify your souls,
As please the judgment of this mortal king.
Athelst. Fair Empress of the world, since you resign
Your power to me, this sentence shall be mine:
Thou shall be tortured on a wheel to death,
Thou with wild horses shall be quarterèd. [Points to Montrose and Longaville.
Vice. Ha, ha, weak judge, weak judgment; I reverse
That sentence, for they are my prisoners.
Embalm the bodies of those Cypriots,
And honour them with princely burial.
For those do as you please; but for these two,
I kiss you both, I love you, y’are my minions.
Untie their bands, Vice doth reprieve you both.
I set you free.
Both. Thanks, gracious deity.
Vice. Begone, but you in liberty shall find
More bondage than in chains; fools, get you hence,
Both wander with tormented conscience.
Longa. O horrid judgment, that’s the hell indeed.