King. Onaelia! oh, shee's drown'd in tears. Onaelia! Let me not dye unpardoned at thy hands.
Enter Baltazar, Sebastian as a Fryer, with others.
Car. Here comes a better Surgeon.
Seb. Haile my good Sonne! I come to be thy ghostly Father.
King. Ha!
My child? tis my Sebastian, or some spirit
Sent in his shape to fright me.
Bal. 'Tis no gobling, Sir, feele: your owne flesh and blood, and much younger than you tho he be bald, and calls you son. Had I bin as ready to cut his sheeps throat as you were to send him to the shambles, he had bleated no more. There's lesse chalke upon you[r] score of sinnes by these round o'es.
King. Oh, my dul soule, looke up; thou art somewhat lighter. Noble Medina, see, Sebastian lives: Onaelia, cease to weepe, Sebastian lives. Fetch me my Crowne: my sweetest pretty Fryer, Can my hands doo't, He raise thee one step higher. Th'ast beene in heavens house all this while, sweet boy?
Seb. I had but coarse cheere.
King. Thou couldst nere fare better:
Religious houses are those hyves where Bees
Make honey for mens soules. I tell thee, Boy,
A Fryery is a Cube which strongly stands,
Fashioned by men, supported by heavens hands:
Orders of holy Priest-hood are as high,
I'th eyes of Angels, as a Kings dignity.
Both these unto a Crowne give the full weight,
And both are thine: you that our Contract know,
See how I scale it with this Marriage;
My blessing and Spaines kingdome both be thine.
Omnes. Long live Sebastian!