e comes your Vncle.

_Enter Medina, Alanzo, Carlo, Alba, Sebastian, Daenia_.

_Med_. Where's our Neece?
Turne your braines round and recollect your spirits,
And see your Noble friends and kinsmen ready
To pay revenge his due.

_Onae_. That word Revenge
Startles my sleepy Soule, now thoroughly wakend
By the fresh object of my haplesse childe
Whose wrongs reach beyond mine.

_Seb_. How doth my sweet mother?

_Onae_. How doth my prettiest boy?

_Alanz_. Wrongs, like greate whirlewinds,
Shake highest Battlements? few for heaven woo'd care
Shoo'd they be ever happy; they are halfe gods
Who both in good dayes and good fortune share.

_Onae_. I have no part in either.

_Carl_. You shall in both,
Can Swords but cut the way.

_Onae_. I care not much, so you but gently strike him,
And that my Child escape the light[e]ning.

_Med_. For that our Nerves are knit: is there not here
A promising face of manly princely vertues?
And shall so sweet a plant be rooted out
By him that ought to fix it fast i'the ground?
_Sebastian_,
What will you doe to him that hurts your mother?

_Seb_. The King my father shall kill him, I trow.

_Daen_. But, sweet Coozen, the King loves not your mother.

_Seb_. I'le make him love her when I am a King.

_Med_. La you, there's in him a Kings heart already.
As, therefore, we before together vow'd,
Lay all your warlike hands upon my Sword
And sweare.

_Seb_. Will you sweare to kill me, Vncle?

_Med_. Oh, not for twenty worlds.

_Seb_. Nay, then, draw and spare not, for I love fighting.

_Med_. Stand in the midst, sweet Cooz; we are your guard;
These Hammers shall for thee beat out a Crowne,
If hit all right. Sweare therefore, noble friends
By your high bloods, by true Nobility,
By what you owe Religion, owe to your Country,
Owe to the raising your posterity;
By love you beare to vertue and to Armes
(The shield of Innocence) sweare not to sheath
Your Swords, when once drawne forth--

_Onae_. Oh, not to kill him
For twenty thousand worlds!

_Med_. Will you be quiet?--
Your Swords, when once drawne forth, till they ha forc'd
Yon godlesse, perjurous, perfidious man--

_Onae_. Pray raile not at him so.

_Med_. Art mad? y'are idle:--till they ha forc'd him
To cancell his late lawlesse bond he seal'd
At the high Altar to his Florentine Strumpet,
And in his bed lay this his troth-plight wife.

_Onae_. I, I, that's well; pray sweare.

_Omnes_. To this we sweare.

_Seb_.