Queen. Follow him close; hee's yeelding.
Mal. Thou shalt be call'd thy Countries Patriot
For quenching out a fire now newly kindling
In factious bosomes; and shalt thereby save
More Noble Spanyards lives than thou slew'st Moores.
Queen. Art thou not yet converted?
Bal. No point.
Queen. Read me then: Medina's Neece, by a contract from the King, Layes clayme to all that's mine, my Crowne, my bed; A sonne she has by him must fill the Throne If her great faction can but worke that wonder. Now heare me—
Bal. I doe with gaping eares.
Queen. I swell with hopefull issue to the King.
Bal. A brave Don call you mother.
Mal. Of this danger The feare afflicts the King.
Bal. Cannot much blame him.