[Points to his crown.
Is't not my right? Was I not heir to Spain?
Pet. You are our prince, and may you live
Long to enjoy your right!
King. But now look here, 'tis plain grief has a hand
Harder than joy; it presses out such tears.
Nay, rise.
Pet. I do beseech your grace not to think me
Contriver of Antonio's 'scape from death;
'Twas my disloyal daughter's breach of duty.
King. That's long since pardon'd.
Pet. You're still merciful.
King. Antonio was thy son; I sent for thee
For to confirm it, but he is dead:
Be merciful, and do not curse the hand
That gave it him, though it deserve it.
Aur. O my griefs, are you not strong enough
To break my heart? Pray, tell me—tell me true
Can it be thought a sin? or is it so
By my own hand to ease my breast of woe?
King. Alas! poor lady, rise; thy father's here.