MALATESTE Whether it were a question moved by chance, Or spitefully of purpose, I being there, And your own Countryman, I cannot tell.

But when much tossing had bandied both the King And you, as pleased those that took up the racquets.

In conclusion, the Father Jesuits, To whose subtle music every ear there Was tied, stood with their lives in stiff defence Of this opinion - oh pardon me If I must speak their language.

QUEEN Say on.

MALATESTE That the most Catholic king in marrying you, Keeps you but as his wh.o.r.e.

QUEEN Are we their themes?

MALATESTE And that Medina's niece, Onaelia, Is his true wife. Her b.a.s.t.a.r.d son they said The King being dead, should claim and wear the crown, And whatsoever children you shall bear, To be but b.a.s.t.a.r.ds in the highest degree, As being begotten in adultery.

QUEEN We will not grieve at this, but with hot vengeance Beat down this armed mischief. Malateste!

What whirlwinds can we raise to blow this storm Back in their faces who thus shoot at me?

MALATESTE If I were fit to be your councillor, Thus would I speak - feign that you are with child.

The mother of the maids, and some worn ladies Who oft have guilty being to court great bellies, May though it not be so, get you with child With swearing that 'tis true.

QUEEN Say 'tis believed, Or that it so doth prove?

MALATESTE The joy thereof, Together with these earthquakes, which will shake All Spain, if they their Prince do disinherit, So borne, of such a Queen, being only daughter To such a brave spirit as Duke of Florence.

All this buzzed into the King, he cannot choose But charge that all the bells in Spain echo up This joy to heaven, that bonfires change the night To a high noon, with beams of sparkling flames; And that in Churches, organs, charmed with prayers, Speak loud for your most safe delivery.

QUEEN What fruits grow out of these?

MALATESTE These; you must stick, As here and there spring weeds in banks of flowers, Spies amongst the people, who shall lay their ears To every mouth, and seal to you their whispering.

QUEEN So.

MALATESTE 'Tis a plummet to sound Spanish hearts How deeply they are yours. Besides a guesse <29> Is hereby made of any faction That shall combine against you, which the King seeing, If then he will not rouse him like a dragon To guard his golden fleece, and rid his harlot And her base b.a.s.t.a.r.d hence, either by death, Or in some traps of state ensnare them both, Let his own ruins crush him.

QUEEN This goes to trial.

Be thou my magic book, which reading o'er Their counterspells we'll break; or if the King Will not by strong hand fix me in his Throne, But that I must be held Spain's blazing star, Be it an ominous charm to call up war.

ACT THREE SCENE TWO

Enter Cornego and Onaelia.

CORNEGO Here's a parcel of man's flesh has been hanging up and down all this morning to speak with you.

ONAELIA Is't not some executioner?

CORNEGO I see nothing about him to hang in but his garters.

ONAELIA Sent from the King to warn me of my death: I prithee bid him welcome.

CORNEGO He says he is a poet.

ONAELIA Then bid him better welcome.

Belike he's come to write my epitaph, Some scurvy thing I'll warrant. Welcome Sir.

Enter Poet.

POET Madam, my love presents this book unto you.

ONAELIA To me? I am not worthy of a line, Unless at that Line hang some hook to choke me:

[Onaelia reads book.]

To the Most Honoured Lady - Onaelia.

Fellow thou liest, I'm most dishonoured: Thou should'st have writ to the most wronged Lady.

The t.i.tle of this book is not to me, I tear it therefore as mine honour's torn.

CORNEGO Your verses are lamed in some of their feet, Master poet.

ONAELIA What does it treat of?

POET Of the solemn triumphs Set forth at coronation of the Queen.

ONAELIA Hissing, the poet's whirlwind, blast thy lines!

Com'st thou to mock my tortures with her triumphs?

POET 'Las Madam!

ONAELIA When her funerals are past, Crown thou a dedication to my joys, And thou shalt swear each line a golden verse.

Cornego, burn this idol.

CORNGO Your book shall come to light, Sir.

Exit Cornego [with book.]

ONAELIA I have read legends of disastrous dames; Will none set pen to paper for poor me?

Canst write a bitter satire? Brainless people Do call them libels. Darest thou write a libel?

POET I dare mix gall and poison with my ink.

ONAELIA Do it then for me.

POET And every line must be A whip to draw blood.

ONAELIA Better.

POET And to dare The stab from him it touches. He that writes Such libels, as you call them, must launch wide The sores of men's corruptions, and even search To the quick for dead flesh, or for rotten cores: A poet's ink can better cure some sores Than surgeon's balsam.

ONAELIA Undertake that cure And crown thy verse with bays.

POET Madam, I'll do it, But I must have the party's character.

ONAELIA The King.