Enter OLYMPIA [with a bottle of ointment]

OLYMPIA.  Distress'd Olympia, whose weeping eyes,

Since thy arrival here, behold no sun,

But, clos'd within the compass of a tent,

Have stain'd thy cheeks, and made thee look like death,

Devise some means to rid thee of thy life,

 Rather than yield to his detested suit,

Whose drift is only to dishonour thee;

And, since this earth, dew'd with thy brinish tears,

Affords no herbs whose taste may poison thee,

 Nor yet this air, beat often with thy sighs,

Contagious smells and vapours to infect thee,

 Nor thy close cave a sword to murder thee,

 Let this invention be the instrument.

 Enter THERIDAMAS.

THERIDAMAS.  Well met, Olympia:  I sought thee in my tent,

But, when I saw the place obscure and dark,

Which with thy beauty thou wast wont to light,