Eu. Ay me! what horror doth inuade my brest!
Or. Nay then, Phylander, I will tell the rest:
Damzell, thus fares thy case; demand not why,
You must forthwith prepare your selfe to dye;
Therefore dispatch and set your mind at rest.
Eu. Phylander, is it true or doth he iest?
Phy. There is no remedie but you must dye:
By you I framde my tragicke history.
The Duke my maister is the man I meant,
His sonne the Prince, the mayde of meane discent
Your selfe, on whom Ascanio so doth doate
As for no reason may remoue his thought
Your death the Duke determines by vs two,
To end the loue betwixt his sonne and you;
And for this cause we trainde you to this wood,
Where you must sacrifice your dearest blood.
Eu. Respect my teares.
Orest. We must regard our oath.
Eu. My tender yeares.
Or. They are but trifles both.
Eu. Mine innocency.
Or. That would our promise breake; Dispatch forthwith, we may not heare you speake.