Page:Miscellaneous Plays 1.pdf/437

Rh

Oh, will this state of tossing agony No termination have! Send out, I pray thee, Another messenger.

Indeed I have in little space of time Sent many forth, but none return again.

In little space! Oh it hath been a term Of horrible length! such as rack'd fiends do reckon Upon their tolling beds of surgy flames, Told by the lashes of each burning tide That o'er them breaks.—Hark! the quick step of one With tidings fraught! Dost thou not hear it?

No; I hear it not.

Still is it the false coinage of my fears? Ah! hearing, sight, and every sense is now False and deceitful grown.—I'll sit me down, And think no more but let the black hour pass