not hee doth survive,
But that his fortune was so ill to wive.
Come, kill, for for that you came; shun delayes
Lest living Ile tell this to thy dispraise,
Make him to hate thee, as he hath just cause,
And like a strumpet turne thee to the lawes.

_Valen_. Good _Fredericke_.

_Fred_. Tis resolv'd on, I haue said.

_Valen_. Then fatall Ministers I craue your ayde.

_Enter Van. and Mont_.

Come, _Vandermas, Montano_, wheres your corde?
Quicklie dispatch, strangle this hatefull Lord.
Or stay: because I love him, he shall chuse
The easiest of three deaths that we may use,
The halter, poyson, or bloodshedding blade.

_Fred_. Any of them.

_Valen_. This Aconite's well made, a cup of poyson
Stuft with despatching simples, give him this,
And he shall quickly leave all earthly blisse.
There, take it, _Fredericke_, our last guift of grace;
Since thou must die, Ile have thee die apace.

_Fred_. O happie meanes, given by a trecherous hand,
To be my true guide to the heavenly land!
Death steales upon me like a silken sleepe;
Through every vaine doe leaden rivers flowe,[213]
The gentlest poyson that I ever knewe,
To work so coldly, yet to be so true.
Like to an infant patiently I goe,
Out of this vaine world, from all worldly woe;
Thankes to the meanes, tho they deserve no thankes,
My soule beginnes t'ore-flow these fleshly bankes.
My death I pardon unto her and you,
My sinnes God pardon; so vaine world adiew.
[_He falls asleep_.

_Valen_. Ha, ha, ha.

_Mon_. Hee's dead, why does your highnesse laugh?

_Valen_. Why, Lord _Montano_, that I love to see,
He that hath sav'd my life, to die for me.
But theres a riddle in this Princes death,
And Ile explaine it on this floore of earth.
Come, to his sisters execution goe,
We have varietie of joyes in woe.
I am sure, you have heard his Excellence did sweare
Both of their heads should grace a Kingly beare.
Upon a mourning hearse let him be layd;
He shalbe intombed with a wived maid.

[_Exeunt_.

_Actus Quintus_.

[SCENE 1.]

_Enter Duke, Hatto, and Alfred_.

_Duke_. Bring forth the prisoners: wher's my beauteous Dutches
That she may see the ruine of her foes?
She that upbraided her with slanderous wordes,
She that in scorne of due obedience
Hath matcht the honour of the _Saxons_ blood
Unto a beggar; let them be brought foorth,
I will not rise from this tribunal seate