Queen. Lowd may it speake.
Mal. The herbs and flowers to strew the wedding way Be Cypresse, Eugh, cold Colloquintida.
Queen. Henbane and Poppey, and that magicall weed[218] Which Hags at midnight watch to catch the seed.
Mal. To these our execrations, and what mischiefe
Hell can but hatch in a distracted braine
Ile be the Executioner, tho it looke
So horrid it can fright e'ne murder backe.
Queen. Poyson his whore to day, for thou shalt wait
On the Kings Cup, and when, heated with wine,
He cals to drinke the Brides health, Marry her
Alive to a gaping grave.
Mal. At board?
Queen. At board.
Mal. When she being guarded round about with friends, Like a faire Iland hem'd with Rocks and Seas,— What rescue shall I find?
Queen. Mine armes? dost faint?
Stood all the Pyrenaean hills, that part
Spaine and our Country, on each others shoulders,
Burning with Aetnean flame, yet thou shouldst on,
As being my steele of resolution
First striking sparkles from my flinty brest.
Wert thou to catch the horses of the Sunne
Fast by their bridles and to turne back day,
Wood'st thou not doo't (base coward) to make way
To the Italians second blisse, revenge?
Mal. Were my bones threatned to the wheele of torture, Ile doo't.