ANGEL SINGS.
She comes, she comes, she comes!
No banquets are so sweete as Martyrdomes.
She comes!
(Angel descends.)
Anton. 'Tis vanish'd, Sir, agen.
Dam. Meere Negromancy.
Cosmo. This is the apparition of some divell Stealing a glorious shape, and cryes 'she comes'!
Clown. If all divels were no worse, would I were amongst 'em.
King. Our power is mockt by magicall impostures;
They shall not mock our tortures. Let Eugenius
And Bellizarius fright away these shadowes
Rung from sharp tortures: drag them hither.
Epi. To th'stake?
Clown. As Beares are?