Car.  Oh, Sir, great store.

King.  Come downe, come quickly downe.

Car.  I’ll forthwith send For a grave Fryer to be your Confessor.

King.  Doe, doe.

Car.  And he shall cure your wounded soule:  —­Fetch him, good Souldier.

Bal.  So good a work I’le hasten.

King. Onaelia! oh, shee’s drown’d in tears. Onaelia!  Let me not dye unpardoned at thy hands.

    Enter Baltazar, Sebastian as a Fryer, with others.

Car.  Here comes a better Surgeon.

Seb.  Haile my good Sonne!  I come to be thy ghostly Father.

King.  Ha!  My child? tis my Sebastian, or some spirit Sent in his shape to fright me.

Bal.  ’Tis no gobling, Sir, feele:  your owne flesh and blood, and much younger than you tho he be bald, and calls you son.  Had I bin as ready to cut his sheeps throat as you were to send him to the shambles, he had bleated no more.  There’s lesse chalke upon you[r] score of sinnes by these round o’es.

King.  Oh, my dul soule, looke up; thou art somewhat lighter.  Noble Medina, see, Sebastian lives:  Onaelia, cease to weepe, Sebastian lives.  Fetch me my Crowne:  my sweetest pretty Fryer, Can my hands doo’t, He raise thee one step higher.  Th’ast beene in heavens house all this while, sweet boy?

Seb.  I had but coarse cheere.

King.  Thou couldst nere fare better: 
Religious houses are those hyves where Bees
Make honey for mens soules.  I tell thee, Boy,
A Fryery is a Cube which strongly stands,
Fashioned by men, supported by heavens hands: 
Orders of holy Priest-hood are as high,
I’th eyes of Angels, as a Kings dignity. 
Both these unto a Crowne give the full weight,
And both are thine:  you that our Contract know,
See how I scale it with this Marriage;
My blessing and Spaines kingdome both be thine.

Omnes.  Long live Sebastian!

Onae.  Doff that Fryers course gray, And since hee’s crown’d a king, clothe him like one.

King.  Oh no; those are right Soveraigne Ornaments: 
Had I been cloth’d so I had never fill’d
Spaine’s Chronicle with my blacke Calumny. 
My worke is almost finish’d:  where’s my Queene?

Queen.  Heere, peece-meale torne by Furies.

King. Onaelia! 
Your hand, Paulina, too; Onaelia, yours: 
This hand (the pledge of my twice broken faith),
By you usurp’d, is her Inheritance. 
My love is turn’d, see, as my fate is turn’d: 
Thus they to day laugh, yesterday which mourn’d: 
I pardon thee my death.  Let her be sent
Backe into Florence with a trebled dowry. 
Death comes:  oh, now I see what late I fear’d;
A Contract broke, tho piec’d up ne’re so well,
Heaven sees, earth suffers, but it ends in hell.
                                            (Moritur.)