Mal. As all our Spanish figs[219] are.
King. Here's to Medina's heart with all my heart.
Med. My hart shal pledge your hart i'th deepest draught That ever Spanyard dranke.
King. Medina mockes me Because I wrong her with the largest Bowle: Ile change with thee, Onaelia.
(Mal. rages)
Queen. Sir, you shall not.
King. Feare you I cannot fetch it off?
Queen. Malateste!
King. This is your scorne to her, because I am doing This poorest honour to her.—Musicke sound! It goes were it ten fadoms to the ground.
Cornets. King drinkes; Queen and Mal. storms.