Mal. Fate strikes with the wrong weapon.
Queen. Sweet royall Sir, no more: it is too deepe.
Mal. Twill hurt your health, Sir.
King. Interrupt me in my drinke! 'tis off.
Mal. Alas, Sir,
You have drunke your last: that poyson'd bowle I fill'd,
Not to be put into your hand but hers.
King. Poyson'd?
Omnes. Descend black speckled soule to hell. (kil Mal. dyes.)
Mal. The Queene has sent me thither?
Card. What new furie shakes now her snakes locks?
Queen. I, I, tis I, Whose soule is torne in peeces till I send This Harlot home.