This night Constantius gives a feast, whereat
He wills I shall be present. Mark we well;
And let your signal my retiring be:
Then tarry not, but to it on the instant.
Murd. Fear not, my noble lord, we are resolv’d.
[Exeunt.
Vor. So now, good King, prepare thee for the worst.
And, ere the thick and noisome air of night
Shall with damn’d Hecate’s baneful spells be fill’d,
Thou must from hence to the cold bed of death,