Anth. Thirty faire Mothers, big with Christian brats,
Upon a scaffold in the Palace plac'd
Had first their dugges sear'd off, their wombes ript up,
About their miscreant heads their first borne Sonnes
Tost as a Sacrifice to Jupiter,
On his great day and the Ninth Month of Genzerick.
King. A Play; a Comicall Stage our Palace was. Any more? oh, let me surfeit.
Anth. Foure hundred Virgins ravisht.
King. Christian Whores; common, 'tis common.
Anth. And then their trembling bodies tost on the Pikes Of those that spoyl'd 'em, sacrific'd to Pallas.
King. More, more; hang Mayden-heads, Christian Maiden-heads.
Anth. This leafe is full of tortur'd Christians: Some pauncht, some starv'd, some eyes and braines bor'd out, Some whipt to death, some torne by Lyons.
King. Damianus, I cannot live to heare my service out; Such haste the Gods make to reward me.
Omnes. Looke to the King. (Shouts within.)
Enter Hubert.