PAULINA

We from one Climate Drew inspiration: as thou then hast eyes To read my wrongs, be thy head and Engine To raise up ponderous mischief to the height, And then thy hands the Executioners: A true Italian spirit is a ball Of Wildfire, hurting most when it seems spent; Great ships on small rocks beating oft, are rend; And so let Spain by us: but ( Malateste ) Why from the Presence did you single me Into this Gallery? As how? let's see that picture. So; and what followed? Say on. Are we their Theames? We will not grieve at this, but with hight vengeance Beatrice down this armed mischief: Malateste! What whirlwinds can we raise to blow this storm Back in their faces who thus shoot at me? Say it's believed, Or that it so does prove? What fruits grow out of these? So. This goes to trial: Be thou my Magic book, which reading over Their counterspels 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 and ominous charm to call up war. Your self that poison brews. I will, I must speak more. That which being left undone, Your life lies at the stake: let they be breathless Both brat and mother. Some treason: guard the King. After him, Malateste; in our lodging Stay that rough fellow, he's the man shall doo't: Haste, or my Hope's are lost. Why are you sad, Sir? Be you but ruled by me, I'll make a calm Smooth as the breast of heaven. You (as your Fortune's tie you) are inclined To have the blow given. It's owned in Baltazar. True, But stayed by me for this. Put it to trial: Retire a little, hither I'll send for him, Offer repeal and favours if he do it; But if deny, you have no finger in't, And then his doom of banishment stands good. Stay Lopez. Step to our Lodging ( Lopez ) And instantly bid Malateste bring The banished Baltazar to us. Thrive my black plots, the mischiefs I have set Must not so die; Ills must new Ills beget. None, for mine honour now is thy protection. O Baltazar! I am thy friend, and marked thee; When the King sentenced thee to banishment Fire sparkled from thine eyes of rage and grief; Rage to be doomed so for a Groom so base, And grief to loose thy County: thou hast killed none, The Milksop is but wounded, thou art not banished. The King (who raped with fury) banished thee, Shall give thee favours, yield but to destroy What him distempers. Only the cutting off a pair of lives. Thy victories in field did never crown thee As this one Act shall. Follow him close, he's yielding. Art thou not yet converted? Read me then: Medina's Niece (by a Contract from the King) Lays claim to all that's mine, my Crown, my bed; A son she has by him must fill the Throne, If her great faction can but work that wonder: Now hear me— I swell with hopeful issue to the King. If therefore by the riddance of this Dame— That Spain be free from frights, the King And I, now held his Infamy, be called Queen, The Treasure of the kingdom shall lie open To pay thy Noble darings. Be firm then; behold the King is come. I found the mettle hard, but with oft beating He S now so softened, he shall take impression From any seal you give him. Good. Is this thy promised yielding to and Act So wholesome for thy Country? Must then his Trul be once more sphered in Court To triumph in my spoils, in my eclipses? And I Like moping Juno fit, while Jove Varies his lust into five hundred shapes Tostcale to his whores bed! no, Malateste, Italian fires of Jealousy burn my marrow; For to delude my Hope's, the lecherous King Cuts out this robe of cunning marriage, To cover his Incontinence, which flames Hight (as my fury) in his black desires: I am swollen big with child of vengeance now, And till delivered, feel the throws of hell. That ( Malateste ) That, That Torrent wracks me But Hymen's Torch (held downward) shall drop out, And for it, the mad Furies swing their brands About the Bridechamber. Loud may it speak. Henbane and Poppey, and that magical we worser Which Hags at midnight watch to catch the seed. Poison his whor e to day, for thou shalt wait On the Kings Cup, and when heated with wine He calls to drink the Brides health, Marry her A live to a gaping grave. At board. A Ravens voice, and it likes me well. With all the love I can, whose fire is such, To give her heat, I cannot burue too much. And mine by heaven. Is to speeding? Sir you shall not. Malate to! Sweet royal Sir no more, it is too deep. I, I, 'tis I; Whose soul is torn in pieces, till I send This Hatlot home. Here piecemeal torn by Furies. Since the bright sphere I moved in falls, alas what make I here? My child, yet newly quickened in my womb, Is blasted with the fires of Bastardy. Dear my Lord. Mine arms: dost faint? Stood all the Pyrenoean hills that partly Spain and our Country, on each others shoulders, Burning with Aetnean flame, yet thou shouldst on, As being my steel of resolution, First striking sparkles from my f inty breast: Wertenberg thou to catch the horses of the Sun Fast by their bridles, and to turn back day, Wouldst thou not doo't (base coward) to make way To the Italians second bliss e (revenge.)