I feel my liver pierc'd, and all my veins,
That there begin and nourish every part,
Mangled and torn, and all my entrails bath'd
In blood that straineth<148> from their orifex.
Farewell, sweet wife! sweet son, farewell! I die.
[Dies.]

OLYMPIA. Death, whither art thou gone, that both we live?
Come back again, sweet Death, and strike us both!
One minute and our days, and one sepulchre
Contain our bodies! Death, why com'st thou not
Well, this must be the messenger for thee:
[Drawing a dagger.]
Now, ugly Death, stretch out thy sable wings,
And carry both our souls where his remains.--
Tell me, sweet boy, art thou content to die?
These barbarous Scythians, full of cruelty,
And Moors, in whom was never pity found,
Will hew us piecemeal, put us to the wheel,
Or else invent some torture worse than that;
Therefore die by thy loving mother's hand,
Who gently now will lance thy ivory throat,
And quickly rid thee both of pain and life.

SON. Mother, despatch me, or I'll kill myself;
For think you I can live and see him dead?
Give me your knife, good mother, or strike home:<149>
The Scythians shall not tyrannize on me:
Sweet mother, strike, that I may meet my father.
[She stabs him, and he dies.]