_Enter_ Zabulon.
_Zab._ Madam, 'tis done.
_Hip._ What's done?
_Zab._ The uncivill stranger
Is at your suite arrested.
_Hip._ 'Tis well handled.
_Zab._ And under guard sent to the Governour,
With whom my testimony, and the favour
He bears your Ladiship, have so prevail'd
That he is sentenc'd.
_Hip._ How?
_Zab._ To lose his head.
_Hip._ Is that the means to quench the scorching heat
Of my inrag'd desires? must innocence suffer,
'Cause I am faulty? or is my Love so fatall
That of necessity it must destroy
The object it most longs for? dull _Hippolyta_,
To think that injuries could make way for love,
When courtesies were despis'd: that by his death
Thou shouldst gain that, which only thou canst hope for
While he is living: My honour's at the stake now,
And cannot be preserv'd, unless he perish,
The enjoying of the thing I love, I ever
Have priz'd above my fame: why doubt I now then?
One only way is left me, to redeem all:
Make ready my Caroch.
_Leo._ What will you Madam?
_Hip._ And yet I am impatient of such stay:
Bind up my hair: fye, fye, while that is doing
The Law may seise his life: thus as I am then,
Not like _Hippolyta_, but a _Bacchanal_
My frantique Love transports me.
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