Flor.  My Lord, I must preferre mine honour still
Before the pleasure of the greatest Monarch,
Which since your Lordship seekes to gratifie
With just and friendly satisfaction,
I will endeavour to redeeme the thought
Of your affection and lost love to us. 
Wilt please you therefore now to associate
This woorthy Prince at this unwoorthy banquet?

Alber.  My Lord, let me intreate your company.

Lassin.  Hold mee excusd, faire Prince; my grieved thoughts
Are farre unmeete for festivall delights: 
Heere will I sit and feede on melancholie,
A humour (now) most pleasing to my taste.

Flor. Lucilia, waite the pleasure of your love. 
My Lord, now to the banquet: 
Daughter, commaund us a carowse of wine.

        [Musick sounds awhile; and they sing
        Boire a le Fountaine.

My Lord, I greete you with this first carowse,
And as this wine (the Elements sweete soule)
Shall grow in me to bloud and vitall spirit,
So shall your love and honor grow in me.

Alber.  I pledge you, sir.

Cass.  How like you him, my Lord?

Alber.  Exceeding well. [Sing boyre a le fountaine.

Flor. Cornelia, do you serve the Prince with wine?

    [Shee puts the powder into the Cup and gives it the Prince.

Alber.  I thanke you, Lady; Earle Cassimeere, I greete you, and remember Your faire Hyanthe.

Cass.  I thanke your honour.
                                [Sing boyre a &c.

Flor.  Fill my Lord Cassimere his right of wine.

Cass. Cornelia, I give you this dead carowse.

Corn.  I thanke your Lordship.
                                [Sing boyre a &c.

Alber.  What smoake? smoake and fire.

Cass.  What meanes your honour?

Alber.  Powder, powder, Etna, sulphure, fier:  quench it, quench it.

Flor.  I feare the medcine hath distemper’d him.—­O villaine Doctor!

Alber.  Downe with the battlements, powre water on! 
I burne, I burne; O give me leave to flie
Out of these flames, these fiers that compasse me.
          
                                  [Exit.

Cass.  What an unheard off accident is this?  Would God, friend Flores, t’had not happen’d here.

Flor.  My Lord, ’tis sure some Planet[53] striketh him; No doubt the furie will away againe.

Cass.  Ile follow him. [Exit.

Lass.  What hellish spright ordain’d this hatefull feast That ends with horror thus and discontent?

Flor.  I hope no daunger will succeede therein;
However, I resolve me to conceale it.—­
My Lord, wilt please you now to change this habit,
And deck your selfe with ornaments more fit
For celebration of your marriage?