King. Art fratricide?
Car. You are so, Sir.
King. If I be, Then here's my first mad fit.
Card. For Honours sake, For love you beare to conscience—
King. Reach the flames: Grandoes and Lords of Spaine be witnesse all What here I cancell; read, doe you know this bond?
Omnes. Our hands are too't.
Daen. 'Tis your confirmed contract
With my sad kinswoman: but wherefore, Sir,
Now is your rage on fire, in such a presence
To have it mourne in ashes?
King. Marquesse Daenia, Wee'll lend that tongue when this no more can speake.
Car. Deare Sir.
King. I am deafe,
Playd the full consort of the Spheares unto me
Vpon their lowdest strings.—Go; burne that witch
Who would dry up the tree of all Spaines Glories
But that I purge her sorceries by fire:
Troy lyes in Cinders; let your Oracles
Now laugh at me if I have beene deceiv'd
By their ridiculous riddles. Why, good father,
(Now you may freely chide) why was your zeale
Ready to burst in showres to quench our fury?