Duke. Hast thou not air enough, my panting soul?
O, what a stitch is coming! [Expirat.
King. Wou'd thou had'st better lov'd thyself and us:
For while thou priz'd the honour of that blood,
We priz'd thee with it. O ambition!
The grandame of all sin, that strikes at stars
With an undaunted brow, whilst thus thy feet
Slide to the nether hell! Like some vast stream,
That takes into its womb all springs that neighbour by it,
And would proudly carry all their currents in its own:
Swells o'er its banks, and wantons like a tyrant.
Take hence the sight: it stirs our indignation.
[Exeunt cum corporibus.
Omnes. Long live the great and good King of Castile!
King. We thank ye, and just heaven which hath (unto wonder)
Unknotted all these mischiefs, and kept us safe:
And because we do not love to use the laws
In their extremity, or execute with blood,
Where we can moderate without; but chiefly,
Dessandro, to endear ye more to heaven
In your acknowledgment, we do enjoin you
To some religious house of Orders, there
By an humble life to expiate your guilt.
Des. Upon my knees I do acknowledge
Your God-like mercy.
King. De Castro
Our thanks shall make your loyalty
Exemplary to all times: nor wish we to live longer
Than to gain the faith of all; that we may find
Ourself and title most secure, and greatest
In your loves; which gives us more
Than giddy fortune can——
This is our fate, and to the wise is known;
All goods without us are, not (sure) our own.
In tenui labor est; at tenuis non gloria.