Kath.  How now, my Lord? you looke as one dismaid; Have any visions troubled you of late?

Alp.  Your grace and your most princely brother here Are highlie welcome to the Saxon Court.

Kath.  O you dissemble, sir, nor are we come In hope of welcome, but with this poore head-peece To beare the brunt of all discurtesies.

Const.  My Lord, wee come not now to urge the marriage,
You sought with such hot suite, of my faire Sister,
But to resolve ourselves and all the world
Why you retained such mean conceipt of us
To slight so solemne and so high a contract
With vaine pretext of visions or of dreames.

Alp.  My Lord, I here protest by earth and heaven
I holde your state right highlie and renowned
And your faire sisters beauties and deserts
To be most worthy the greatest king alive;
Onlie an ominous vision troubled me
And hindred the wisht speede I would have made
(Not to dissolve it, though it were diferd,)
By such portents as, least you thinke I faine,
Lord Hardenbergh can witnesse is most true.

Hard.  Most true, my lord, and most prodigious.

Alp.  Yet Ile contemne them with my life and all Ere Ile offend your grace or breed suspect Of my firme faith in my most honoured love.

Kath.  No, no, my lord:  this is your vision That hath not frighted but enamoured you.

Alp.  O Madame, thinke you so? by Heaven I sweare
She’s my sonnes love.—­Sirra, take her to you. 
Have I had all this care to do her grace,
To prove her vertues and her love to thee,
And standst thou fearefull now?  Take her, I say.

Lea.  My Lord, he feares you will be angry with him.

Alp.  You play the villaine:  wherfore should he feare? 
I onely proved her vertues for his sake,
And now you talke of anger.  Aye me wretche,
That ever I should live to be thus shamed!

Alb.  Madame, I sweare the Ladie is my love; Therefore your highnesse cannot charge my father With any wrong to your high woorth in her.

Con.  Sister, you see we utterly mistake
The kinde and princelie dealing of the Duke: 
Therefore without more ceremonious doubts
Lets reconfirme the contract and his love.

Kath.  I warrant you, my Lord, the Duke dissembles.

Alp.  Heere on my knees, at the altar of those feete,
I offer up in pure and sacred breath
The true speech of my hart and hart it selfe. 
Require no more if thou be princelie borne
And not of rocks or ruthelesse tygers bred.

Kath.  My Lord, I kindlie cry you mercy now,
Ashamed that you should injurie your estate
To kneele to me; and vowe before these lords
To make you all amends you can desire.

Flo.  Madame, in admiration of your Grace
And princelie wisedom, and to gratifie
The long wisht joye done to my Lord the Duke,
I here present your highnesse with this cup,
Wrought admirablie by th’ art of Spirits,
Of substance faire, more rich then earthly Jemmes,
Whose valew no mans judgement can esteeme.