King.  Which mirth to heighten Your Bridegroome and your selfe first pledge this health Which we begin to our high Constable.

    (Three Cups fild:  1 to the King, 2 to the Bridegroome,
    3 to Onaelia, with whom the King complements.)

Queen.  Is’t speeding?

Mal.  As all our Spanish figs[219] are.

King.  Here’s to Medina’s heart with all my heart.

Med.  My hart shal pledge your hart i’th deepest draught That ever Spanyard dranke.

King. Medina mockes me Because I wrong her with the largest Bowle:  Ile change with thee, Onaelia.

(Mal. rages)

Queen.  Sir, you shall not.

King.  Feare you I cannot fetch it off?

Queen. Malateste!

King.  This is your scorne to her, because I am doing This poorest honour to her.—­Musicke sound!  It goes were it ten fadoms to the ground.

        Cornets.  King drinkes; Queen and Mal. storms.

Mal.  Fate strikes with the wrong weapon.

Queen.  Sweet royall Sir, no more:  it is too deepe.

Mal.  Twill hurt your health, Sir.

King.  Interrupt me in my drinke! ’tis off.

Mal.  Alas, Sir, You have drunke your last:  that poyson’d bowle I fill’d, Not to be put into your hand but hers.

King.  Poyson’d?

Omnes.  Descend black speckled soule to hell.
                                     (kil Mal. dyes.)

Mal.  The Queene has sent me thither?

Card.  What new furie shakes now her snakes locks?

Queen.  I, I, tis I, Whose soule is torne in peeces till I send This Harlot home.

Car.  More Murders? save the lady.

Balt.  Rampant? let the Constable make a mittimus.

Med.  Keepe ’em asunder.

Car.  How is it royall sonne?

King.  I feele no poyson yet; only mine eyes
Are putting out their lights:  me thinks I feele
Deaths Icy fingers stroking downe my face;
And now I’me in a mortall cold sweat.

Queen.  Deare my Lord.

King.  Hence! call in my Physicians.

Med.  Thy Physician, Tyrant, Dwels yonder:  call on him or none.

King.  Bloody Medina! stab’st thou, Brutus, too?

Daen.  As hee is so are we all.

King.  I burne; My braines boyle in a Caldron:  O, one drop Of water now to coole me!

Onae.  Oh, let him have Physicians!

Med.  Keepe her backe.

King.  Physicians for my soule:  I need none else. 
You’ll not deny me those?  Oh, holy Father,
Is there no mercy hovering in a cloud
For me, a miserable King, so drench’d
In perjury and murder?