Enter Lords drawne.

Omnes.  In danger, Sir?

King.  Yes, yes, I am; but ’tis no point of weapon
Can rescue me.  Goe presently and summon
All our chiefe Grandoes[192], Cardinals and Lords
Of Spaine to meet in counsell instantly. 
We call’d you forth to execute a businesse
Of another straine,—­but ’tis no matter now. 
Thou dyest when next thou furrowest up our brow.

Bal.  Go! dye!
                   [Exit.

Enter Cardinal, Roderigo, Alba,[193] Dania, Valasco.

King.  I find my Scepter shaken by enchantments
Charactred in this parchment, which to unloose
I’le practise only counter-charmes of fire
And blow the spells of lightning into smoake: 
Fetch burning Tapers.
                                   [Exeunt.

Card.  Give me Audience, Sir;
My apprehension opens me a way
To a close fatall mischiefe worse then this
You strive to murder:  O this act of yours
Alone shall give your dangers life, which else
Can never grow to height; doe, Sir, but read
A booke here claspt up, which too late you open’d,
Now blotted by you with foul marginall notes.

King.  Art fratricide?

Car.  You are so, Sir.

King.  If I be, Then here’s my first mad fit.

Card.  For Honours sake, For love you beare to conscience—­

King.  Reach the flames:  Grandoes and Lords of Spaine be witnesse all What here I cancell; read, doe you know this bond?

Omnes.  Our hands are too’t.

Daen.  ’Tis your confirmed contract
With my sad kinswoman:  but wherefore, Sir,
Now is your rage on fire, in such a presence
To have it mourne in ashes?

King.  Marquesse Daenia, Wee’ll lend that tongue when this no more can speake.

Car.  Deare Sir.

King.  I am deafe,
Playd the full consort of the Spheares unto me
Vpon their lowdest strings.—­Go; burne that witch
Who would dry up the tree of all Spaines Glories
But that I purge her sorceries by fire: 
Troy lyes in Cinders; let your Oracles
Now laugh at me if I have beene deceiv’d
By their ridiculous riddles.  Why, good father,
(Now you may freely chide) why was your zeale
Ready to burst in showres to quench our fury?

Card.  Fury, indeed; you give it a proper name. 
What have you done? clos’d up a festering wound
Which rots the heart:  like a bad Surgeon,
Labouring to plucke out from your eye a moate,
You thrust the eye clean out.

King.  Th’art mad ex tempore:  What eye? which is that wound?

Car.  That Scrowle, which now
You make the blacke Indenture of your lust,
Altho eat up in flames, is printed here,
In me, in him, in these, in all that saw it,
In all that ever did but heare ’twas yours: 
That scold of the whole world (Fame) will anon
Raile with her thousand tongues at this poore Shift
Which gives your sinne a flame greater than that
You lent the paper; you to quench a wild fire
Cast oyle upon it.