Onae.  The guilt of that layes claime, Sir, to your selfe;
For, being by you ransack’d of all my fame,
Rob’d of mine honour and deare chastity,
Made by you[r] act the shame of all my house,
The hate of good men and the scorne of bad,
The song of Broome-men and the murdering vulgar,
And left alone to beare up all these ills
By you begun, my brest was fill’d with fire
And wrap’d in just disdaine; and, like a woman,
On that dumb picture wreak’d I my passions.

King.  And wish’d it had beene I.

Onae.  Pardon me, Sir:  My wrongs were great and my revenge swell’d high.

King.  I will descend and cease to be a King,
To leave my judging part; freely confessing
Thou canst not give thy wrongs too ill a name. 
And here, to make thy apprehension full
And seat thy reason in a sound beleefe,
I vow to morrow (e’re the rising sunne
Begin his journey), with all Ceremonies
Due to the Church, to scale our Nuptials;
To prive[185] thy sonne, with full consent of State,
Spaines heire Apparant, borne in wedlock vowes.

Onae.  And will you sweare to this?

King.  By this I sweare.

Onae.  Oh you have sworne false oathes upon that booke.

King.  Why, then by this.

Onae.  Take heed you print it deeply. 
How for your concubine (Bride, I cannot say)? 
She staines your bed with black Adultery;
And though her fame maskes in a fairer shape
Then mine to the worlds eye, yet (King) you know
Mine honour is less strumpetted than hers,
However butcher’d in opinion.

King.  This way for her:  the contract (which thou hast)
By best advice of all our Cardinals
To day shall be enlarg’d till it be made
Past all dissolving:  then to our Counsell-Table
Shall she be call’d, that read aloud, she told
The Church commands her quicke returne for Florence,
With such a dower as Spaine received with her;
And that they will not hazard heavens dire curse
To yeeld to a match unlawfull, which shall taint
The issue of the King with Bastardy. 
This done, in State Majestic come you forth
(Our new-crown’d Queene) in sight of all our Peeres. 
—­Are you resolv’d?

Onae.  To doubt of this were Treason Because the King has sworne it.

King.  And will keepe it.  Deliver up the Contract then, that I May make this day end with my misery.

Onae.  Here, as the dearest Jewell of my fame,
Lock’d I this parchment from all viewing eyes;
This your Indenture held alone the life
Of my suppos’d dead honour:  yet (behold)
Into your hands I redeliver it. 
Oh keepe it, Sir, as you should keepe that vow
To which (being sign’d by Heaven) even Angels bowe.