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FAUSTUS. Why, how now, Sir Knight! what, hanged by the horns! FAUSTUS. O, say not so, sir! the doctor has no skill, To keep his carcass from their bloody fangs.-- No art, no cunning, to present these lords, this is [166] most horrible: fie, fie, pull in your head, for In bold Actaeon's shape, to turn a stag:-- SAXONY. What, is he asleep or dead? Upon the head of young Benvolio! EMPEROR. Nay, an thy horns hold, 'tis no matter for thy head, Two spreading horns most strangely fastened As [168] all his footmanship shall scarce prevail I'll raise a kennel of hounds shall hunt him so SAXONY. Look up, Benvolio; 'tis the Emperor calls. shame! let not all the world wonder at you. for that's armed sufficiently. BENVOLIO. Zounds, doctor, this is [167] your villany! Or bring before this royal Emperor BENVOLIO. The Emperor! where?--O, zounds, my head! thine own. EMPEROR. This sport is excellent: we'll call and wake him.-- EMPEROR. I blame thee not to sleep much, having such a head of The mighty monarch, warlike Alexander. If Faustus do it, you are straight resolv'd, What, ho, Benvolio! And therefore, my lord, so please your majesty, FAUSTUS. He sleeps, my lord; but dreams not of his horns. BENVOLIO. A plague upon you! let me sleep a while.