Queen. My child, yet newly quickened in my wombe, Is blasted with the fires of Bastardy.
King. Who? who dares once but thinke so in his dreame?
Mal. Medina's faction preached it openly.
King. Be curst he and his Faction: oh, how I labour
For these preventions! but, so crosse is Fate,
My ills are ne're hid from me but their Cures.
What's to be done?
Queen. That which being left undone, Your life lyes at the stake: let 'em be breathlesse, Both brat and mother.
King. Ha!
Mal. She playes true Musicke, Sir:
The mischiefes you are drench'd in are so full
You need not feare to add to 'em; since now
No way is left to guard thy rest secure
But by a meanes like this.
Lop. All Spaine rings forth Medina's name and his Confederates.
Rod. All his Allyes and friends rush into troopes Like raging Torrents.
Val. And lowd Trumpet forth Your perjuries; seducing the wild people And with rebellious faces threatning all.