King.  Those any where:  my signet, take my signet, And free all on your lives, free all the Christians.  What dost thou else desire?

Eugen.  This; that thy selfe trample upon thy Pagan Gods.

Omnes.  Sir!

King.  Away.

Eugen.  Wash your soule white by wading in the streame Of Christian gore.

King.  I will turne Christian.

Dam.  Better wolves worry this accursed—­

King.  Better
Have Bandogs[163] worry all of you, than I
To languish in a torment that feedes on me
As if the Furies bit me.  Ile turn Christian,
And, if I doe not, let the Thunder pay
My breach of promise.  Cure me, good old man,
And I will call thee father; thou shalt have
A king come kneeling to thee every Morning
To take a blessing from thee, and to heare thee
Salute him as a sonne. 
When, when is this wonder?

Eugen.  Now; you are well, Sir.

King.  Ha!

Eugen.  Has your paine left you?

King.  Yes; see else, Damianus, Antony, Cosmo; I am well.

Omnes.  He does it by inchantment.

1 Phys.  By meere Witch-Craft.

Eugen.  Thy payment for my cure.

King.  What?

Eugen.  To turne Christian, And set all Christian slaves at liberty.

King.  Ile hang and torture all—­
Call backe the Messenger sent with our signet. 
For thy selfe, thou foole, should I allow
Thee life thou wouldst be poyson’d by our
Colledge of Physitians.  Let him not touch me
Nor ever more come neare me; and to be sure
Thy sorceries shall not strike me, stone him to death.

    (They binde him to a stake, and fetch stones in baskets.)

Omnes.  When?

King.  Now, here presently.

Eugen.  Ingratefull man!

King.  Dispatch, his voyce is horrid in our eares; Kill him, hurle all, and in him kill my feares.

Eugen.  I would thy feares were ended.

King.  Why thus delay you?

Dam.  The stones are soft as spunges.

Anton.  Not any stone here Can raze his skin.

Dam.  See, Sir.

Cosmo.  Thankes, heavenly preservation.

King.  Mockt by a hell-hound!

Omnes.  This must not be endur’d, Sir.

King.  Unbinde the wretch; Naile him to the earth with Irons.  Cannot death strike him?  New studied tortures shall.

Eugen.  New tortures bring,
They all to me are but a banquetting.
                                      [Exit.

Anton.  But are you well, indeed, Sir?

King.  Passing well:  Though my Physitian fetcht the cure from hell; All’s one, I am glad I have it.