Ele. By what? Is't not rare walking here?
Methinks this stage shows like a tennis-court;
Does it not, Isabel? I'll show thee how—
Suppose that iron chain to be the line,
The prison-doors the hazard, and their heads,
Scarce peeping o'er the line, suppose the balls!
Had I a racket now of burnish'd steel,
How smoothly could I bandy every ball
Over this globe of earth, win set, and all.
Phil. How brisk the villain jets in villany!
Ele. Prating! he's proud because he wears a chain:
Take it off, Balthazar, and take him hence.
[They unbind him.
Phil. And whither then, you dog?
Isa. Pity my brother.
Ele. Pity him! no; away!
Phil. Ay, come, do come.[73] I pray thee kill me: come.
Ele. I hope to see
Thy own hands do that office. Down with him!
Phil. Is there another hell?