llies.--Who are without, there?
How now?

_Enter Lords drawne_.

_Omnes_. In danger, Sir?

_King_. Yes, yes, I am; but 'tis no point of weapon
Can rescue me. Goe presently and summon
All our chiefe Grandoes[192], Cardinals and Lords
Of _Spaine_ to meet in counsell instantly.
We call'd you forth to execute a businesse
Of another straine,--but 'tis no matter now.
Thou dyest when next thou furrowest up our brow.

_Bal_. Go! dye!
[_Exit_.

_Enter Cardinal, Roderigo, Alba,[193] Dania, Valasco_.

_King_. I find my Scepter shaken by enchantments
Charactred in this parchment, which to unloose
I'le practise only counter-charmes of fire
And blow the spells of lightning into smoake:
Fetch burning Tapers.
[_Exeunt_.

_Card_. Give me Audience, Sir;
My apprehension opens me a way
To a close fatall mischiefe worse then this
You strive to murder: O this act of yours
Alone shall give your dangers life, which else
Can never grow to height; doe, Sir, but read
A booke here claspt up, which too late you open'd,
Now blotted by you with foul marginall notes.

_King_. Art fratricide?

_Car_. You are so, Sir.

_King_. If I be,
Then here's my first mad fit.

_Card_. For Honours sake,
For love you beare to conscience--

_King_. Reach the flames:
Grandoes and Lords of _Spaine_ be witnesse all
What here I cancell; read, doe you know this bond?

_Omnes_. Our hands are too't.

_Daen_. 'Tis your confirmed contract
With my sad kinswoman: but wherefore, Sir,
Now is your rage on fire, in such a presence
To have it mourne in ashes?

_King_. Marquesse _Daenia_,
Wee'll lend that tongue when this no more can speake.

_Car_. Deare Sir.

_King_. I am deafe,
Playd the full consort of the Spheares unto me
Vpon their lowdest strings.--Go; burne that witch
Who would dry up the tree of all Spaines Glories
But that I purge her sorceries by fire:
Troy lyes in Cinders; let your Oracles
Now laugh at me if I have beene deceiv'd
By their ridiculous riddles. Why, good father,
(Now you may freely chide) why was your zeale
Ready to burst in showres to quench our fury?

_Card_. Fury, indeed; you give it a proper name.
What have you done? clos'd up a festering wound
Which rots the heart: like a bad Surgeon,
Labouring to plucke out from your eye a moate,
You thrust the eye clean out.

_King_. Th'art mad _ex tempore_:
What eye? which is that wound?

_Car_. That Scrowle, wh