Queen.  Must then his Trul be once more sphear’d in Court
To triumph in my spoyles, in my ecclipses? 
And I like moaping Iuno sit whilst Iove
Varies his lust into five hundred shapes
To steale to his whores bed?  No, Malateste;
Italian fires of Iealousie burn my marrow: 
For to delude my hopes the leacherous King
Cuts out this robe of cunning marriage
To cover his Incontinence, which flames
Hot (as my fury) in his black desires. 
I am swolne big with child of vengeance now,
And, till deliver’d, feele the throws of hell.

Mal.  Iust is your Indignation, high and noble,
And the brave heat of a true Florentine. 
For Spaine Trumpets abroad her Interest
In the Kings heart, and with a black cole drawes
On every wall your scoff’d at injuries. 
As one that has the refuse of her sheets,
And the sick Autumne of the weakned King,
Where she drunke pleasures up in the full spring.

Queen.  That, Malateste, That, That Torrent wracks me; But Hymens Torch (held downe-ward) shall drop out, And for it the mad Furies swing their brands About the Bride-chamber.

Mal.  The Priest that joyns them Our Twin-borne malediction.

Queen.  Lowd may it speake.

Mal.  The herbs and flowers to strew the wedding way Be Cypresse, Eugh, cold Colloquintida.

Queen.  Henbane and Poppey, and that magicall weed[218] Which Hags at midnight watch to catch the seed.

Mal.  To these our execrations, and what mischiefe Hell can but hatch in a distracted braine Ile be the Executioner, tho it looke So horrid it can fright e’ne murder backe.

Queen.  Poyson his whore to day, for thou shalt wait On the Kings Cup, and when, heated with wine, He cals to drinke the Brides health, Marry her Alive to a gaping grave.

Mal.  At board?

Queen.  At board.

Mal.  When she being guarded round about with friends, Like a faire Iland hem’d with Rocks and Seas,—­ What rescue shall I find?

Queen.  Mine armes? dost faint? 
Stood all the Pyrenaean hills, that part
Spaine and our Country, on each others shoulders,
Burning with Aetnean flame, yet thou shouldst on,
As being my steele of resolution
First striking sparkles from my flinty brest. 
Wert thou to catch the horses of the Sunne
Fast by their bridles and to turne back day,
Wood’st thou not doo’t (base coward) to make way
To the Italians second blisse, revenge?

Mal.  Were my bones threatned to the wheele of torture, Ile doo’t.

    Enter Lopes.

Queen.  A ravens voyce, and it likes me well.

Lop.  The King expects your presence.

Mal.  So, so, we come, To turne this Brides day to a day of doome.

[Exeunt.