[Exit Constantius.
Vor. Fortune, I thank thee!
Now is the cup of my ambition full!
And, by the rising tempest in my blood,
I feel the fast approach of greatness, which,
E’en like a peasant, stoops for my acceptance.
Yet hold: O! conscience, how is’t with thee?
Why dost thou whisper? should I heed thee now,
My fabric crumbles, and must fall to nought?
Come, then, thou soft, thou double-fac’d deceit!