Let not your sorrow die, though I am dead.
Tut, I haue done a thousand dreadfull things
As willingly, as one would kill a Fly,
And nothing greeues me hartily indeede,
But that I cannot doe ten thousand more

Luci. Bring downe the diuell, for he must not die
So sweet a death as hanging presently

Aron. If there be diuels, would I were a deuill,
To liue and burne in euerlasting fire,
So I might haue your company in hell,
But to torment you with my bitter tongue

Luci. Sirs stop his mouth, & let him speake no more.
Enter Emillius.

Goth. My Lord, there is a Messenger from Rome
Desires to be admitted to your presence

Luc. Let him come neere.
Welcome Emillius, what the newes from Rome?
Emi. Lord Lucius, and you Princes of the Gothes,
The Romaine Emperour greetes you all by me,
And for he vnderstands you are in Armes,
He craues a parly at your Fathers house
Willing you to demand your Hostages,
And they shall be immediately deliuered

Goth. What saies our Generall?