[Exeunt.
Queen-M. O, fly, my Eleazar; save thy life,
Else 'point a guard about thee; the mad people,
Tempestuous like the sea, run up and down,
Some crying kill the bastard, some, the Moor;
Some cry, God save King Philip; and some cry,
God save the Moor, some others, he shall die.
Ele. Are these your fears? Thus blow them into air.
I rushed amongst the thickest of their crowds,
And with a countenance majestical,
Like the imperious sun, dispers'd their clouds;
I have perfumed the rankness of their breath,
And by the magic of true eloquence
Transform'd this many-headed Cerberus,
This pied chamelion, this beast multitude,
Whose power consists in number, pride in threats,
Yet melt like snow when majesty shines forth,
This heap of fools who, crowding in huge swarms,
Stood at our court gates like a heap of dung,
Reeking and shouting out contagious breath
Of power to poison all the elements—
This wolf I held by th' ears, and made him tame,
And made them tremble at the Moor's great name:
No, we must combat with a grimmer foe;
That damn'd Mendoza overturns our hopes.
He loves you dearly.
Queen-M. By his secret letters
He hath entreated me to leave the court,
And fly into his arms.
Ele. The world cannot devise a stratagem
Sooner to throw confusion on his pride.
Subscribe to his desires, and in dead night
Steal to his castle; swear to him his love
Hath drawn you thither; undermine his soul,
And learn what villanies are there laid up;
Then for your pleasure walk to take the air:
Near to the castle I'll in ambush lie,
And seem by force to take you prisoner:
This done, I have a practice (plotted here)
Shall rid him of his life and us of fear.
About it, madam, this is all in all;
We cannot stand, unless Mendoza fall.
[Exeunt.
ACT IV., SCENE 1.
Enter Emanuel, King of Portugal, Prince Philip, Mendoza, Alvero, with drums and soldiers marching.
K. of Port. Poor Spain! how is the body of thy peace
Mangled and torn by an ambitious Moor.
How is thy prince and councillors abus'd,
And trodden under the base foot of scorn.
Wrong'd lords, Emanuel of Portugal partakes
A falling share in all your miseries;
And though the tardy hand of slow delay
Withheld us from preventing your mishaps
Yet shall revenge dart black confusion
Into the bosom of that damned fiend.