Mach. Pray, take your seats.
Ray. [To Philippa.] Not well? prythee, retire.
Phil. Sick, sick at heart.
Aur. Well-wrought poison! O, how joy swells me!
[Aside.
Ant. You see, my lord, the poison is box'd up.
[Above.
Phil. Health wait upon this royal company.
King. Knows she we are here?
Ant. O no, my lord, 'tis to the twins of treason: Machiavel and Raymond.