which she is so prodigal, are for me,
Or us'd to cloak her base hypocrisie. [_Exit._

_Enter_ Hippolyta _and_ Sulpitia.

_Hip._ Are you assur'd the charm prevails?

_Sulp._ Do I live?
Or do you speak to me? Now this very instant
Health takes its last leave of her; meager paleness
Like winter, nips the Roses and the Lilies,
The Spring that youth, and love adorn'd her face with.
To force affection, is beyond our art,
For I have prov'd all means that hell has taught me,
Or the malice of a woman, which exceeds it,
To change _Arnoldo's_ love, but to no purpose:
But for your bond-woman--

_Hip._ Let her pine and dye;
She remov'd, which like a brighter Sun,
Obscures my beams, I may shine out again,
And as I have been, be admir'd and sought to:
How long has she to live?

_Sulp._ Lady, before
The Sun twice rise and set, be confident,
She is but dead; I know my Charm hath found her.
Nor can the Governours Guard; her lovers tears;
Her Fathers sorrow, or his power that freed her,
Defend her from it.

_Enter_ Zabulon.

_Zab._ All things have succeeded,
As you could wish; I saw her brought sick home;
The image of pale death, stampt on her fore-head.
Let me adore this second Hecate,
This great Commandress, of the fatal Sisters,
That as she pleases, can cut short, or lengthen
The thread of life.

_Hip._ Where was she when the inchantment
First seis'd upon her?

_Zab._ Taking the fresh air,
In the company of the Governour, and Count _Clodio_,
_Arnoldo_ too, was present with her Father,
When, in a moment (so the servants told me)
As she was giving thanks to the Governour,
And _Clodio_, for her unexpected freedom,
As if she had been blasted, she sunk down,
To their amazement.

_Hip._ 'Tis thy master-piece
Which I will so reward, that thou shalt fix here,
And with the hazard of thy life, no more
Make tryal of thy powerful Art; which known
Our Laws call death: off with this Magical Robe,
And be thy self.

_Enter_ Governour, Clodio, _and_ Charino.

_Sulp._ Stand close, you shall hear more.

_Man._ You must have patience; all rage is vain now,
And piety forbids, that we should question
What is decreed above, or ask a reason
Why heaven determines this or that way of us.

_Clod._ Heaven has no hand in't; 'tis a work of hell.
Her life hath been so innocent, all her actions
So free from the suspicion of crime,
As rather she deserves a Saints place here,
Than to endure, what now her sweetness suffers.