Ele. This is excellent!
Hire these to write books, preach, and proclaim abroad
That your son Philip is a bastard.
Queen-M. How?
Ele. A bastard. Do you know a bastard? do't:
Say conscience spake with you, and cried out do't;
By this means shall you thrust him from all hope
Of wearing Castile's diadem, and, that spur
Galling his sides, he will fly out and fling,
And grind the cardinal's heart to a new edge
Of discontent; from discontent grows treason,
And on the stalk of treason, death: he's dead,
By this blow and by you; yet no blood shed.
Do't then; by this trick he is gone.
We stand more sure in climbing high;
Care not who fall, 'tis real policy: are you
Arm'd to do this, ha?
Queen-M. Sweet Moor, it is done.
Ele. Away then; work with boldness and with speed:
On greatest actions greatest dangers feed.
[Exit Queen-Mother.
Ha, ha! I thank thee, provident creation,
That seeing[55] in moulding me thou didst intend
I should prove villain; thanks to thee and nature,
That skilful workman: thanks for my face:
Thanks that I have not wit to blush!
What, Zarack! ho, Balthazar!
Enter the two Moors.
Both. My lord.
Ele. Nearer. So: silence!
Hang both your greedy ears upon my lips;
Let them devour my speech, suck in my breath, and in.
Who let's it break prison, here is his death.
This night the card'nal shall be murder'd.