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Actus quintus.
Scena prima.
The S••ene drawn, Otanes, Darius, and Artaban appear bound and
Chain'd in a dark Prison.
Otan.
Prexaspes! Oh, tame easie Faiths, that we
Could trust that salvage Scythian's Loyalty;
A Monster worse than Africk ever bred:
Whose Breast, like Deserts, is inhabited
By nought but Poysons.
Dar.
Your mistake does seem
Rather a gallant Virtue, than a Crime.
For in great Minds this gen'rous instinct Rules:
They by their own Copy all others souls;
Acting like those diseases, where the eye
In its own colours does all objects dye.
Enter Prexaspes.
Prex.
My Lords, the King is gracious, and hath sent
To try how you can brook Imprisonment.
Otan.
Imprisonment we think our greatest bliss:
There we can see neither thy Crimes, nor His.
Prex.
Am I by those that wear my Chains contemn'd?
I thank ye, Sirs, ye have your selves condemn'd.
Guards, there within.
Dar.
—Yes, Traytor, thou shalt see
That we despise our Deaths as much as thee.
Enter Guards, and Executioner.
Otan.
Must we not know the cause for which we fall?
Prex.
The cause! ha ha—Yes, Sir, you shall.
It is Prexaspes's pleasure you should dye.
Dar.
Is this the Justice of your Cruelty?
Prex.
Justice! Justice is but the breath of pow'r▪
When ev'ry rising King, and Conquerour