Onae. Doff that Fryers course gray, And since hee's crown'd a king, clothe him like one.
King. Oh no; those are right Soveraigne Ornaments:
Had I been cloth'd so I had never fill'd
Spaine's Chronicle with my blacke Calumny.
My worke is almost finish'd: where's my Queene?
Queen. Heere, peece-meale torne by Furies.
King. Onaelia!
Your hand, Paulina, too; Onaelia, yours:
This hand (the pledge of my twice broken faith),
By you usurp'd, is her Inheritance.
My love is turn'd, see, as my fate is turn'd:
Thus they to day laugh, yesterday which mourn'd:
I pardon thee my death. Let her be sent
Backe into Florence with a trebled dowry.
Death comes: oh, now I see what late I fear'd;
A Contract broke, tho piec'd up ne're so well,
Heaven sees, earth suffers, but it ends in hell.
(Moritur.)
Onae. Oh, I could dye with him!
Queen. Since the bright spheare I mov'd in falls, alas, what make I here? [Exit.
Med. The hammers of blacke mischiefe now cease beating,
Yet some irons still are heating. You, Sir Bridegroome,
(Set all this while up as a marke to shoot at)
We here discharge you of your bed fellow:
She loves no Barbars washing.
Cock. My Balls are sav'd then.
Med. Be it your charge, so please you, reverend Sir,
To see the late Queene safely sent to Florence:
My Neece Onaelia, and that trusty Souldier,
We doe appoint to guard the infant King.
Other distractions Time must reconcile;
The State is poyson'd like a Crocodile.
[Exeunt.