Lus. Give me thy hand; these others I rebuke:
He that hopes so is fittest for a duke:
Thou shalt sit next me; take your places, lords;
We're ready now for sports; let 'em set on:
You thing! we shall forget you quite anon!
3d Noble. I hear 'em coming, my lord.
Enter the masque of Revengers, the two brothers, and two Lords more.
[The Revengers' dance: at the end steal out their
swords, and these four kill the four at the
table, in their chairs. It thunders.
Ven. Mark, thunder!
Dost know thy cue, thou big-voic'd crier?
Dukes' groans are thunder's watchwords.
Hip. So, my lords, you have enough.
Ven. Come, let's away, no lingering.
Hip. Follow! go! [Exeunt.
Ven. No power is angry when the lustful die;
When thunder claps, heaven likes the tragedy.
[Exit Vendice.