Hath altered the condition of my love
And filde my heart with yrksome discontent.

_Flor_. My Lord, I must preferre mine honour still
Before the pleasure of the greatest Monarch,
Which since your Lordship seekes to gratifie
With just and friendly satisfaction,
I will endeavour to redeeme the thought
Of your affection and lost love to us.
Wilt please you therefore now to associate
This woorthy Prince at this unwoorthy banquet?

_Alber_. My Lord, let me intreate your company.

_Lassin_. Hold mee excusd, faire Prince; my grieved thoughts
Are farre unmeete for festivall delights:
Heere will I sit and feede on melancholie,
A humour (now) most pleasing to my taste.

_Flor_. _Lucilia_, waite the pleasure of your love.
My Lord, now to the banquet:
Daughter, commaund us a carowse of wine.

[_Musick sounds awhile; and they sing
Boire a le Fountaine_.

My Lord, I greete you with this first carowse,
And as this wine (the Elements sweete soule)
Shall grow in me to bloud and vitall spirit,
So shall your love and honor grow in me.

_Alber_. I pledge you, sir.

_Cass_. How like you him, my Lord?

_Alber_. Exceeding well. [_Sing boyre a le fountaine_.

_Flor_. _Cornelia_, do you serve the Prince with wine?

[_Shee puts the powder into the Cup and gives it the Prince_.

_Alber_. I thanke you, Lady;
Earle _Cassimeere_, I greete you, and remember
Your faire _Hyanthe_.

_Cass_. I thanke your honour.
[_Sing boyre a &c_.

_Flor_. Fill my Lord _Cassimere_ his right of wine.

_Cass_. _Cornelia_, I give you this dead carowse.

_Corn_. I thanke your Lordship.
[_Sing boyre a &c_.

_Alber_. What smoake? smoake and fire.

_Cass_. What meanes your honour?

_Alber_. Powder, powder, _Etna_, sulphure, fier: quench it, quench it.

_Flor_. I feare the medcine hath distemper'd him.--O villaine Doctor!

_Alber_. Downe with the battlements, powre water on!
I burne, I burne; O give me leave to flie
Out of these flames, these fiers that compasse me.
[_Exit_.

_Cass_. What an unheard off accident is this?
Would God, friend _Flores_, t'had not happen'd here.

_Flor_. My Lord, 'tis sure some Planet[53] striketh him;
No doubt the furie will away againe.

_Cass_. Ile follow him. [_Exit_.

_Lass_. What hellish spright ordain'd this hatefull feast
That ends with horror thus and discontent?

_F