What hatefull fury doth envy my happy state?
Then, Sacrapant, these are thy latest dayes.
Alas, my vaines are numd, my sinews shrinke,
My bloud is pearst,[1127] my breath fleeting away,
And now my timelesse date is come to end: 770
He in whose life his actions[1128] hath beene so foule,
Now in his death to hell descends his soule.
He dyeth.
Jack. Oh, sir, are you gon? Now I hope we shall have some other coile. Now, maister, how like you this? the Conjurer hee is dead, and vowes never to trouble us more. Now get you to your 775 faire Lady, and see what you can doo with her. Alas, he heareth me not all this while; but I will helpe that.
He pulles the wooll out of his eares.