Don John. No, sir; my happiness you cannot have,
Whilst to your abject passions thus a slave.
To know my ease, you thoughts like mine must bring,
Be something less a man, and more a king.
King. I'm growing so. 'Tis true that long I strove
With pleading nature, combated with love,
Those witchcrafts that had bound my soul so fast;
But now the date of the enchantment's past:
Before my rage like ruins down they fall,
And I mount up true monarch o'er them all.
Don John. I know your queen and son you've doomed to die,
And fear by this the fatal hour is nigh.
Why would you cut a sure succession off,
At which your friends must grieve, and foes will laugh;
As if, since age has from you took away
Increase, you'd grow malicious, and destroy?
King. Doubt it not, Austria: thou my brother art,
And in my blood I'm certain hast a part.
Only the justice of my vengeance own,—
Thou'rt heir of Spain, and my adopted son.
Don John. I must confess there in a crown are charms,
Which I would court in bloody fields and arms;
But in my nephew's wrong I must decline,
Since he must be extinguished ere I shine.
To mount a throne o'er battlements I'd climb,
Where Death should wait on me, not I on him.
Did you e'er love, or have you ever known
The mighty value of so brave a son?
King. I guessed I should be treated thus before;
I know it is thy kindness, but no more.
Thou, living free, alas! art easy grown
And think'st all hearts as honest as thy own.
Don John. Not, sir, so easy as I must be bold,
And speak what you perhaps would have untold;
That you're a slave to the vilest that obey,
Such as disgrace on royal favour lay,
And blindly follow as they lead astray:
Voracious varlets, sordid hangers-on;
Best by familiarity they're known,
Yet shrink at frowns: but when you smile they fawn.
They're these have wronged you, and abused your ears,
Possessed your mind with false misgrounded fears.
King. Misgrounded fears? Why, is there any truth
In women's vows, or disobedient youth?
I sooner would believe this world were Heaven,
Where I have nought but toils and torment met,
And never comfort yet to man was given.
But thou shalt see how my revenge I'll treat.
[A curtain is drawn, and discovers the Queen alone in mourning on her couch, with a lamp by her.
Look where she sits, as quiet and serene [Ironically.
As if she never had a thought of sin,
In mourning, her wronged innocence to show!
She has sworn't so oft, that she believes it true.
O'erwhelmed with sorrow she'll in darkness dwell:
So we have heard of witches in a cell,
Treating with fiends, and making leagues with hell.