Card. Fury, indeed; you give it a proper name.
What have you done? clos'd up a festering wound
Which rots the heart: like a bad Surgeon,
Labouring to plucke out from your eye a moate,
You thrust the eye clean out.
King. Th'art mad ex tempore: What eye? which is that wound?
Car. That Scrowle, which now
You make the blacke Indenture of your lust,
Altho eat up in flames, is printed here,
In me, in him, in these, in all that saw it,
In all that ever did but heare 'twas yours:
That scold of the whole world (Fame) will anon
Raile with her thousand tongues at this poore Shift
Which gives your sinne a flame greater than that
You lent the paper; you to quench a wild fire
Cast oyle upon it.
King. Oyle to blood shall turne; I'le lose a limbe before the heart shall mourne.
[Exeunt.
Manent Daenia, Alba.
Daen. Hee's mad with rage or joy.
Alb. With both; with rage
To see his follies check'd, with fruitlesse joy
Because he hopes his Contract is cut off
Which Divine Justice more exemplifies.
Enter Medina.
Med. Where's the king?