King. As with a Shippe
Now beat with stormes, now safe the stormes are vanisht;
And having you my Pylot I not onely
See shore but harbour. I to you will open
The booke of a blacke sinne deepe-printed in me.
Oh, father, my disease lyes in my soule.
Card. The old wound, Sir?
King. Yes, that; it festers inward:
For though I have a beauty to my bed
That even Creation envies at, as wanting
Stuffe to make such another, yet on her pillow
I lye by her but an Adulterer
And she as an Adulteresse. Shee's my Queene
And wife, yet but my strumpet, tho the Church
Set on the seale of Mariage: good Onaelia,
Neece to our Lord high Constable of Spaine,
Was precontracted mine.
Card. Yet when I stung Your Conscience with remembrance of the Act, Your eares were deafe to counsell.
King. I confesse it.
Card. Now to unty the knot with your new Queene Would shake the Crowne halfe from your head.
King. Even Troy (Tho she hath wept her eyes out) wud find teares To wayle my kingdomes ruines.
Card. What will you doe then?
King. She has that Contract written, seal'd by you And other Churchmen (witnesses untoo't). A kingdome should be given for that paper.
Card. I wud not, for what lyes beneath the Moone, Be made a wicked Engine to breake in pieces That holy Contract.