2 ANGEL SINGS.
Victory, victory! hell is beaten downe,
The Martyr has put on a golden Crowne;
Ring Bels of Heaven, him welcome hither,
Circle him Angels round together.
1 Angel. Follow!
Vict. I will; what sacred voice cryes 'follow'! I am ready: Oh send me after him.
King. Thou shalt not, Till thou hast fed my lust.
Vict. Thou foole, thou canst not;
All my mortality is shaken off;
My heart of flesh and blood is gone; my body
Is chang'd; this face is not that once was mine.
I am a Spirit, and no racke of thine
Can touch me.
King. Not a racke of mine shall touch thee.
Why should the world loose such a paire of Sunnes
As shine out from thine eyes? Why art thou cruell,
To make away thy selfe and murther mee?
Since whirle-winds cannot shake thee thou shalt live,
And Ile fanne gentle gales upon thy face.
Fetch me a day bed, rob the earths perfumes
Of all the ravishing sweetes to feast her sence;
Pillowes of roses shall beare up her head;
O would a thousand springs might grow in one
To weave a flowry mantle o're her limbes
As she lyes downe.
Enter two Angels about the bed.
Vict. O that some rocke of Ice Might fall on me and freeze me into nothing.
King. Enchant our [her?] eares with Musicke; would I had skill
To call the winged musitians of the aire
Into these roomes! they all should play to thee
Till golden slumbers danc'd upon thy browes,
Watching to close thine eye-lids.