King.
See, lord Ambassador, how Spain entreats
Their prisoner Balthazar, thy viceroy's son:
We pleasure more in kindness than in wars.
Ambassador.
Sad is our king, and Portingal laments,
Supposing that Don Balthazar is slain.
Balthazar.
So am I slain by beauty's tyranny.
You see, my lord, how Balthazar is slain:
I frolic with the Duke of Castile's son,
Wrapp'd every hour in pleasures of the court,
And grac'd with favours of his majesty.
King.
Put off your greetings, till our feast be done;
Now come and sit with us, and taste our cheer.
[Sit to the banquet.
Sit down, young prince, you are our second guest:
Brother, sit down; and, nephew, take your place.
Signior Horatio, wait thou upon our cup,
For well thou hast deserved to be honour'd.
Now, lordings, fall to; Spain is Portingal,
And Portingal is Spain; we both are friends;
Tribute is paid, and we enjoy our right.
But where is old Hieronimo, our marshal?
He promis'd us, in honour of our guest,
To grace our banquet with some pompous jest.[85]