Alv. Was not the queen here with you?
Ele. Queen with me!
Because, my lord, I'm married to your daughter,
You, like your daughter, will grow jealous:
The queen with me! with me a Moor, a devil,
A slave of Barbary, a dog—for so
Your silken courtiers christen me. But, father,
Although my flesh be tawny, in my veins
Runs blood as red, as royal, as the best
And proudest in Spain; there does, old man.
My father, who with his empire lost his life,
And left me captive to a Spanish tyrant,—
O! Go tell him, Spanish tyrant; tell him, do.
He that can lose a kingdom, and not rave,
He's a tame jade; I am not: tell old Philip
I call him tyrant; here's a sword and arms,
A heart, a head, and so, pish!—'tis but death.
Old fellow, she's not here: but ere I die,
Sword, I'll bequeath thee a rich legacy.
Alv. Watch fitter hours to think on wrongs than now;
Death's frozen hand holds royal Philip's heart;
Half of his body lies within a grave;
Then do not now by quarrels shake that state,
Which is already too much ruinate.
Come, and take leave of him, before he die.
[Exit.
Ele. I'll follow you. Now, purple villany,
Sit like a robe imperial on my back,
That under thee I closelier may contrive
My vengeance; foul deeds hid do sweetly thrive.
Mischief, erect thy throne, and sit in state
Here, here upon this head; let fools fear fate,
Thus I defy my stars. I care not, I,
How low I tumble down, so I mount high:
Old Time, I'll wait bareheaded at thy heels,
And be a footboy to thy winged hours;
They shall not tell one minute out in sands,
But I'll set down the number; I'll still wake,
And waste these balls of sight by tossing them
In busy observations upon thee.
Sweet opportunity! I'll bind myself
To thee in base apprenticehood so long,
Till on thy naked scalp grow hair as thick
As mine; and all hands shall lay hold on thee,
If thou wilt lend me but thy rusty scythe,
To cut down all that stand within my wrongs
And my revenge. Love, dance in twenty forms
Upon my beauty, that this Spanish dame
May be bewitch'd and doat; her amorous flames
Shall blow up the old king, consume his sons,
And make all Spain a bonfire. This
Tragedy being acted, hers doth begin:
To shed a harlot's blood can be no sin.
[Exit.
SCENE III.
The Curtain being drawn, there appears in his bed King Philip, with his Lords; the Princess Isabella at the feet, Mendoza, Alvero, Hortenzo, Fernando, Roderigo; and to them enter Queen in haste.
Queen-M. Whose was that screech-owl's voice that, like the sound
Of a hell-tortur'd soul, rung through mine ears
Nothing but horrid shrieks, nothing but death?
Whilst I, vailing my knees to the cold earth,
Drowning my wither'd cheeks in my warm tears,
And stretching out my arms to pull from heaven
Health for the royal majesty of Spain,
All cried, the majesty of Spain is dead!
That last word dead struck through the echoing air
Rebounded on my heart, and smote me down
Breathless to the cold earth, and made me leave
My prayers for Philip's life; but, thanks to heaven,
I see him live, and lives (I hope) to see
Unnumber'd years to guide this empery.
King P. The number of my years ends in one day:
Ere this sun's down, all a king's glory sets,
For all our lives are but death-counterfeits.
Father Mendoza, and you peers of Spain,
Dry your wet eyes; for sorrow wanteth force
T' inspire a breathing soul in a dead corse;
Such is your king. Where's Isabella, our daughter?