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Act Four, Scene Two

[Enter] Olympia alone.

Distrest Olympia, whose weeping eies
Since thy arrivall here beheld no Sun,
But closde within the compasse of a tent,
Hath stain'd thy cheekes, and made thee look like death,
Devise some meanes to rid thee of thy life,
Rather than yeeld to his detested suit,
Whose drift is onely to dishonor thee.
And since this earth, dew'd with thy brinish teares,
Affoords no hearbs, whose taste may poison thee,
Nor yet this seer, beat often with thy sighes,
Contagious smels, and vapors to infect thee,
Nor thy close Cave a sword to murther thee,
Let this invention be the instrument.
Enter Theridamas.

Wel met Olympia, I sought thee in my tent,
But when I saw the place obscure and darke,
Which with thy beauty thou wast woont to light,
Enrag'd I ran about the fields for thee,
Supposing amorous Jove had sent his sonne,
The winged Hermes, to convey thee hence:
But now I finde thee, and that feare is past.
Tell me Olympia, wilt thou graunt my suit?

My Lord and husbandes death, with my sweete sons,
With whom I buried al affections,
Save griefe and sorrow which torment my heart,
Forbids my mind to entertaine a thought
That tends to love, but meditate on death,
A fitter subject for a pensive soule.

Olympia, pitie him, in whom thy looks
Have greater operation and more force
Than Cynthias in the watery wildernes,
For with thy view my joyes are at the full,
And eb againe, as thou departst from me.

Ah, pity me my Lord, and draw your sword,
Making a passage for my troubled soule,
Which beates against this prison to get out,
And meet my husband and my loving sonne.

Nothing, but stil thy husband and thy sonne?
Leave this my Love, and listen more to me.
Thou shalt be stately Queene of faire Argier,
And cloth'd in costly cloath of messy gold,
Upon the marble turrets of my Court
Sit like to Venus in her chaire of state,
Commanding all thy princely eie desires,
And I will cast off armes and sit with thee,
Spending my life in sweet discourse of love.

No such discourse is pleasant in mine eares,
But that where every period ends with death,
And every line begins with death againe:
I cannot love to be an Emperesse.

Nay Lady, then if nothing wil prevaile,
Ile use some other means to make you yeeld,
Such is the sodaine fury of my love,
I must and wil be pleasde, and you shall yeeld:
Come to the tent againe.

Stay good my Lord, and wil you save my honor,
Ile give your Grace a present of such price,
As all the world cannot affoord the like.

What is it?

An ointment which a cunning Alcumist
Distilled from the purest Balsamum,
And simplest extracts of all Minerals,
In which the essentiall fourme of Marble stone,
Tempered by science metaphisicall,
And Spels of magicke from the mouthes of spirits,
With which if you but noint your tender Skin,
Nor Pistol, Sword, nor Lance can pierce your flesh.

Why Madam, thinke ye to mocke me thus palpably?

To proove it, I wil noint my naked throat,
Which when you stab, looke on your weapons point,
And you shall se't rebated with the blow.

Why gave you not your husband some of it,
If you loved him, and it so precious?

My purpose was (my Lord) to spend it so,
But was prevented by his sodaine end.
And for a present easie proofe hereof,
That I dissemble not, trie it on me.

I wil Olympia, and will keep it for
The richest present of this Easterne world.
She noints her throat.

Now stab my Lord, and mark your weapons point
That wil be blunted if the blow be great.

Here then Olympia. [Stabs her.]

What, have I slaine her? Villaine, stab thy selfe:
Cut off this arme that murthered my Love:
In whom the learned Rabies of this age,
Might find as many woondrous myracles,
As in the Theoria of the world.
Now Hell is fairer than Elisian,
A greater Lamp than that bright eie of heaven,
From whence the starres doo borrow all their light,
Wanders about the black circumference,
And now the damned soules are free from paine,
For every Fury gazeth on her lookes:
Infernall Dis is courting of my Love,
Inventing maskes and stately showes for her,
Opening the doores of his rich treasurie,
To entertaine this Queene of chastitie,
Whose body shall be tomb'd with all the pompe
The treasure of my kingdome may affoord.
Exit, taking her away.

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