King. Doe this, I sweare to jewell him in my bosome. —See where he comes.
Enter Epidophorus with Bellizarius and Eugenius.
Belliz. And whither now? Is Tyranny growne ripe To blow us to our graves yet?
King. Bellizarius, Thy wife has s'ud for mercy, and has found it; Speake, Lady, tell him how.
Belliz. Victoria too!
Oh, then I feare the striving to expresse
The virtue of a good wife hath begot
An utter ruine of all goodnesse in thee.
What wou'dst thou say, poore woman?
My Lord the King,
Nothing can alter your incensed rage
But recantation?
King. Nothing.
Vict. Recantation! sweet
Musicke; Bellizarius, thou maist live;
The King is full of royall bounty—like
The ambition of mortality—examine;
That recantation is—a toy.
King. None hinder her; now ply him.
Vict. To lose the portage[168] in these sacred pleasures
That knowes no end; to lose the fellowship
Of Angels; lose the harmony of blessings
Which crowne all Martyrs with eternity!
Wilt thou not recant?
King. I understand her not.