Alexandro.
O wicked forgery! O trait'rous miscreant!
Viceroy.
Hold thou thy peace! but now, Villuppo, say,
Where then became the carcase of my son?
Villuppo.
I saw them drag it to the Spanish tents.
Viceroy.
Ay, ay; my nightly dreams have told me this.
Thou false, unkind, unthankful, trait'rous beast,
Wherein had Balthazar offended thee,
That thou shouldst thus betray him to our foes?
Was't Spanish gold that bleared so thine eyes,
That thou couldst see no part of our deserts?
Perchance, because thou art Tercera's lord,
Thou hadst[62] some hope to wear this diadem,
If first my son and then myself, were slain;
But thy ambitious thought[63] shall break thy neck:
Ay, this was it that made thee spill his blood,
[He takes the crown, and puts it on again.