King. And upon your lives My longings feast with her, though her base limbes Be in a thousand pieces.
Clown. She shall be gathered up.
[Exit. Epid. and Clowne.
(Victoria rises out of the cave, white.)
Vict. What's the Kings will? I am here.
Are your tormentors ready to give battaile?
I am ready for them, and though I lose
My life hope to winne the day.
King. What art thou?
Vict. An armed Christian.
King. What's thy name?
Vict. Victoria: in my name there's conquest writ: I therefore feare no threat[e]nings! but pray That thou maist dye a good king.
Omnes. This is not she, Sir.