Med. No, heare me—
Bal. You were better, my Lord, saile 500 times to Bantam[217] in the West-Indies than once to Barathrum in the Low-Countries. It's hot going under the line there; the Callenture of the soule is a most miserable madnesse.
Med. Turne, then, this wheele of Fate from shedding blood, Till with her owne hand Iustice weyes all.
Bal. Good.
[Exeunt.
(SCENE 3.)
Queen. Must then his Trul be once more sphear'd in Court
To triumph in my spoyles, in my ecclipses?
And I like moaping Iuno sit whilst Iove
Varies his lust into five hundred shapes
To steale to his whores bed? No, Malateste;
Italian fires of Iealousie burn my marrow:
For to delude my hopes the leacherous King
Cuts out this robe of cunning marriage
To cover his Incontinence, which flames
Hot (as my fury) in his black desires.
I am swolne big with child of vengeance now,
And, till deliver'd, feele the throws of hell.
Mal. Iust is your Indignation, high and noble,
And the brave heat of a true Florentine.
For Spaine Trumpets abroad her Interest
In the Kings heart, and with a black cole drawes
On every wall your scoff'd at injuries.
As one that has the refuse of her sheets,
And the sick Autumne of the weakned King,
Where she drunke pleasures up in the full spring.
Queen. That, Malateste, That, That Torrent wracks me;
But Hymens Torch (held downe-ward) shall drop out,
And for it the mad Furies swing their brands
About the Bride-chamber.
Mal. The Priest that joyns them Our Twin-borne malediction.