Queen. And mine, by heaven!
Mal. Free from one goode looke till the blow be given.
King. Wine; a full Cup crown'd to Medina's health!
Med. Your Highnesse this day so much honors me That I, to pay you what I truly owe, My life shall venture for it.
Daen. So shall mine.
King. Onaelia, you are sad: why frownes your brow?
Onae. A foolish memory of my past ills Folds up my looke in furrowes of old care, But my heart's merry, Sir.
King. Which mirth to heighten Your Bridegroome and your selfe first pledge this health Which we begin to our high Constable.
(Three Cups fild: 1 to the King, 2 to the Bridegroome, 3 to Onaelia, with whom the King complements.)
Queen. Is't speeding?