Queen.  We from one climate
Drew suspiration:  as thou then hast eyes
To read my wrongs, so be thy head an Engine
To raise up ponderous mischiefe to the height,
And then thy hands the Executioners. 
A true Italian Spirit is a ball
Of Wild-fire, hurting most when it seemes spent;
Great ships on small rocks beating oft are rent;
And so let Spaine by us.  But, Malateste,
Why from the Presence did you single me
Into this Gallery?

Mal.  To shew you, Madam,
The picture of your selfe, but so defac’d
And mangled by proud Spanyards it woo’d whet
A sword to arme the poorest Florentine
In your just wrongs.

Queen.  As how? let’s see that picture.

Mal.  Here ’tis then:  Time is not scarce foure dayes old
Since I and certaine Dons (sharp-witted fellowes
And of good ranke) were with two Jesuits
(Grave profound Schollers) in deepe argument
Of various propositions; at the last
Question was mov’d touching your marriage
And the Kings precontract.

Queen.  So; and what followed?

Mal.  Whether it were a question mov’d by chance
Or spitefully of purpose (I being there
And your own Country-man) I cannot tell;
But when much tossing
Had bandyed both the King and you, as pleas’d
Those that tooke up the Rackets, in conclusion
The Father Jesuits (to whose subtile Musicke
Every eare there was tyed) stood with their lives
In stiffe defence of this opinion—­
Oh, pardon me if I must speake their language.

Queen.  Say on.

Mal.  That the most Catholike King in marrying you Keepes you but as his whore.

Queen.  Are we their Theames?

Mal.  And that Medina’s Neece, Onaelia,
Is his true wife:  her bastard sonne, they said,
(The King being dead) should claim and weare the Crowne;
And whatsoever children you shall beare
To be but bastards in the highest degree,
As being begotten in Adultery.

Queen.  We will not grieve at this, but with hot vengeance Beat down this armed mischiefe. Malateste, What whirlewinds can we raise to blow this storme Backe in their faces who thus shoot at me?

Mal.  If I were fit to be your Counsellor Thus would I speake:  feigne that you are with childe,—­ The mother of the Maids, and some worne Ladies Who oft have guilty beene to court great bellies, May (tho it be not so) get you with childe With swearing that ’tis true.

Queen.  Say ’tis beleev’d, Or that it so doth prove.

Mal.  The joy thereof,
Together with these earth-quakes which will shake
All Spaine if they their Prince doe dis-inherit,
So borne, of such a Queene, being onely daughter
To such a brave spirit as the Duke of Florence;—­
All this buzz’d into the King, he cannot chuse
But charge that all the Bels in Spaine eccho up
This joy to heaven; that Bone-fires change the night
To a high Noone with beames of sparkling flames;
And that in Churches Organs (charm’d with prayers)
Speake lowd for your most safe delivery.