Poet.  Emulation.

Onae.  Which the next?

Poet.  Necessity.

Onae.  And which the worst?

Poet.  Selfe-love.

Onae.  Say I turne Poet, what should I get?

Poet.  Opinion.

Onae.  ’Las I have got too much of that already. 
Opinion is my Evidence, Judge and Jury;
Mine owne guilt and opinion now condemne me. 
I’le therefore be no Poet; no, nor make
Ten Muses of your nine, I sweare, for this;
Verses, tho freely borne, like slaves are sold;
I Crowne thy lines with Bayes, thy love with gold: 
So fare thou well.

Poet.  Our pen shall honour you.
                              [Exit.

    Enter Cornego.

Cor.  The Poets booke, Madam, has got the Inflammation of the Livor, it dyed of a burning Feaver.

Onae.  What shall I doe, Cornego? for this Poet
Has fill’d me with a fury:  I could write
Strange Satyrs now against Adulterers
And Marriage-breakers.

Cor.  I beleeve you, Madam.—­But here comes your Vncle.

    Enter Medina, Alanzo, Carlo, Alba, Sebastian, Daenia.

Med.  Where’s our Neece?  Turne your braines round and recollect your spirits, And see your Noble friends and kinsmen ready To pay revenge his due.

Onae.  That word Revenge Startles my sleepy Soule, now thoroughly wakend By the fresh object of my haplesse childe Whose wrongs reach beyond mine.

Seb.  How doth my sweet mother?

Onae.  How doth my prettiest boy?

Alanz.  Wrongs, like greate whirlewinds, Shake highest Battlements? few for heaven woo’d care Shoo’d they be ever happy; they are halfe gods Who both in good dayes and good fortune share.

Onae.  I have no part in either.

Carl.  You shall in both, Can Swords but cut the way.

Onae.  I care not much, so you but gently strike him, And that my Child escape the light[e]ning.

Med.  For that our Nerves are knit:  is there not here A promising face of manly princely vertues?  And shall so sweet a plant be rooted out By him that ought to fix it fast i’the ground? Sebastian, What will you doe to him that hurts your mother?

Seb.  The King my father shall kill him, I trow.

Daen.  But, sweet Coozen, the King loves not your mother.

Seb.  I’le make him love her when I am a King.

Med.  La you, there’s in him a Kings heart already. 
As, therefore, we before together vow’d,
Lay all your warlike hands upon my Sword
And sweare.

Seb.  Will you sweare to kill me, Vncle?

Med.  Oh, not for twenty worlds.

Seb.  Nay, then, draw and spare not, for I love fighting.