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 But yet my heart's more ponderous then my head, And pants until I see the Conjuror dead.

Mart. Where shall we place our selves Benvolio?

Ben. Heere will we stay to bide the first assault, O were that damned hell-hound but in place, Thou soone shouldst see me quit my foule disgrace.

Fred. Close, close, the Conjuror is at hand, And all alone comes walking in his gowne: Be ready, then, and strike the Peasant downe.

Ben. Mine be that honour then: now sword strike home, For hornes he gave Ile have his head anone.

Mart. See, see, he comes.

Ben. No words, this blow ends all, Hell take his soule, his body thus must fall.

Faust. Oh.

Fred. Grone you Master Doctor?

Ben. Breake may his heart with grones: deere Fredericke see, Thus will I end his griefes immediatly.

Mart. Strike with a willing hand, his head is off.

Ben. The Devil's dead, The Furies now may laugh.

Fred. Was this that sterne aspect, that awfull frowne, Made the grim Monarch of infernall spirits Tremble and quake at his commanding Charmes?

Mart. Was this that damned head, whose heart conspir'd Benvolio's shame before the Emperour?

Ben. I thats the head, and there the bodie lies, Justly rewarded for his villanies.

Fred. Come, let's devise how we may adde more shame To the blacke scandall of his hated name.

Ben. First, on his head, in quittance of my wrongs, Ile naile huge forked hornes, and let them hang Within, the window where he yoak'd me first, That all the World may see my just revenge.

Mart. What use shall we put his beard to? Ben.