Scene III.—A wood. Benvolio, Martino and Frederick.
Martino: Nay, sweet Benvolio, let us sway thy thoughts
From this attempt against the conjurer.
Benvolio: Away! You love me not, to urge me thus.
Shall I let slip so great an injury,
When every servile groom jests at my wrongs,
And in their rustic gambols proudly say,
"Benvolio's head was graced with horns to-day?"
If you will aid me in this enterprise,
Then draw your weapons and be resolute.
If not, depart; here will Benvolio die,
But Faustus' death shall quit my infamy.
Frederick: Nay, we will stay with thee, betide what may,
And kill that doctor, if he comes this way.
Close, close! The conjurer is at hand,
And all alone comes walking in his gown.
Be ready, then, and strike the peasant down.
Benvolio: Mine be that honour, then. Now, sword, strike home!
For horns he gave, I'll have his head anon!
[Enter Faustus.
No words; this blow ends all.
Hell take his soul! His body thus must fall.
[Benvolio stabs Faustus, who falls; Benvolio cuts off his head.
Frederick: Was this that stern aspect, that awful frown
Made the grim monarchs of infernal spirits
Tremble and quake at his commanding charms?