Phil. Thou'lt be damn'd first.
Ele. By all our Indian gods——
Phil. Puh! never swear.
Thou know'st 'tis for a kingdom which we fight,
And for that who'll not venture to hell-gates?
Come, Moor, I'm arm'd with more than complete steel—
The justice of my quarrel: when I look
Upon my father's wrongs, my brother's wounds,
My mother's infamy, Spain's misery,
And lay my finger here; O, 'tis too dull
To let out blood enough to quench them all.
But when I see your face, and know what fears
Hang on thy troubled soul, like leaden weights,
To make it sink, I know this finger's touch
Has strength to throw thee down; I know this iron
Is sharp and long enough to reach that head.
Fly not, devil; if thou do——
Ele. How? fly? O, base!
Phil. Come then.
Ele. Stay, Philip; whosoe'er begat thee——
Phil. Why, slave, a king begat me.
Ele. May be so;
But I'll be sworn thy mother was a queen;
For her sake will I kill thee nobly.
Fling me thy sword; there's mine. I scorn to strike
A man disarm'd.
Phil. For this dishonouring me,
I'll give thee one stab more.
Ele. I'll run away,
Unless thou change that weapon, or take mine.