QUEEN

Those greetings from the Lady Elidure Would pleasingly found in our princely ears. Speak that again, o I will bless my fate, If once more I supply my former state. Now minion, I'll cry quittance with your pride, And make you stoop at our imperial side But tell me Morgan by what accident You met with my beloved Archigallo? Restrain her good my Lord. Our shoe string is untied, stoop minion, stoop. Bring me the work there, I will task you to, That by the hour spin it, I charge you do. What news with Cornwell, why so sad my Lord? Oh my heart. Now as you love me let no helping hand Preserve life in me, I had rather die Then lose the title of my sovereignty. What no good morrow and our grace so near. Reach me my glove. Why to my subject, to my waiting maid, Am not I mighty Archigalloes queen? Is not my Lord the royal English King, Thy husband and thy self my servitors? You hear me. I cannot bear this, 'tis insufferable, I'll to the King, and if he save thy life He shall have mine: madness and wrath attend, My thoughts are leveled at a bloody end. Thinkest thou because Thy husband can dissemble piety, And therein hath deposed my royal Lord, That I am lesser in estate then Queen? No thine own answer lately given to me, I thus revet, stoop thou proud Queen for me. Theres for your pains. I scorn thy pride. Torment on torment, tutord by a fool. Insulting, overproud, ambitious woman Queen I disdain to call thee, thou dost wrong Thy brother's wife, indeed thy Kings espoused, And manger all thy tyranny I swear, Rather then still live thus, I'll perish here. Time was base spaniel thou didst fawn as much On me, as now thou strivest to flatter her: Oh God, that one born noble should be so base, His generous blood to scandal all his raze. Welcome from banishment my loving Lord, Your kingly presence wraps my soul to heaven. Our brother's, by how much that name exceeds The name of Lord, so much the more this duty Deserves requital, thanks both, and thanks to all. Bring hither the proud wife of Elidure, How; sick. Your Hope's are great fair brother's, and your names, shall if in this you be advised by us, Be ranked in scroule of all the British kings, O take upon you this so weighty charge, To great to be discharged by Elidure. Why that dare ours, 'tis we command thee stale. Is't you, then happily met, I have owed you long, and now I'll pay that dept. We dare command thee stand, Thou wast a Queen, but now thou art a slave. Thart no more Queen, thy husband must resign. Nay strike her first. Nay shes bestowed on me. Come Minion, will you go. You are welcome, what new flatteries, Are a coining in the mint of that smooth face? What in love with her, Canst thou affect such a dejected wretch, Then I perceive thy flattery is folly, Or thought prove honest, loving one so poor. I have seen too much of thee to credit thee. Thou wilt not. neither. Enough, enough, does nobody all this? Though he hath cleared himself from country crimes, He cannot escape the city. Minion, my glove. Is he alive, or dead. All that I crave, Is but to make the imperious Queen my slave, That she that above Justice now commands, May taste new thraldom at our royal hands. That I might live to see that happy hour, To have that stern commandress in my power. When will you give the attempt. Give up thy state to these two princely youths, and thy resigment shall preserve thy life. Whither he live or die, thou sure shalt be no longer Queen, but Vassayle unto me, I'll make you now my drudge. For Gods sake make us friends. Kind sister. Nor I in all my state as in her love. Shall I bear this? Do not hear her prayers heaven I beseech thee. The Queen I claim. Amongst my other waiting maids at work. Thou wouldst not poison for me his base Queen, Whom I so often have triumphed over, That torment now is her beatitude, And tedious unto me. So thou muderst his. See where she comes, dispatch her presently, For though the Princely Peridure be king, His brother's death in time will make him odious Unto his subjects, and they may restore Mild Elidure again, and then I die, Let them both be sercht. What bombast bears his gorge.