[Exeunt Guard with the French Colonels.
Ray. Was't thy plot, Machiavel? go laughing to thy grave.
[Stabs him.
Aur. Alas! my lord is wounded.
Ray. Come hither, Frenchman, make a dying man
Bound to thy love; go to Philippa,
Sickly as she is, bring her unto me;
Or my flying soul will not depart in peace else:
Prythee, make haste: yet stay, I have not breath
To pay thy labour.
Shrink ye, you twin-born Atlases, that bear
This my near-ruin'd world; have you not strength
To bear a curse, whose breath may taint the air,
That this globe may feel an universal plague?
No; yet bear up, till with a vengeful eye
I outstare day, and from the dogged sky
Pluck my impartial star. O, my blood
Is frozen in my veins—farewell, revenge—me——
[Dies.
Aler. They need no law.
Ful. Nor hangman.
Pan. They condemn and execute without a jury.
Enter Philippa mad.