SCENE II.

_Enter_ ALVERO.

ALV. Son Eleazar, saw you not the queen?

ELE. Hah!

ALV. Was not the queen here with you?

ELE. Queen with me! Because, my lord, I'm married to your daughter, You, like your daughter, will grow jealous: The queen with me! with me a Moor, a devil, A slave of Barbary, a dog--for so Your silken courtiers christen me. But, father, Although my flesh be tawny, in my veins Runs blood as red, as royal, as the best And proudest in Spain; there does, old man. My father, who with his empire lost his life, And left me captive to a Spanish tyrant,-- O! Go tell him, _Spanish tyrant_; tell him, do. He that can lose a kingdom, and not rave, He's a tame jade; I am not: tell old Philip I call him tyrant; here's a sword and arms, A heart, a head, and so, pish!--'tis but death. Old fellow, she's not here: but ere I die, Sword, I'll bequeath thee a rich legacy.

ALV. Watch fitter hours to think on wrongs than now; Death's frozen hand holds royal Philip's heart; Half of his body lies within a grave; Then do not now by quarrels shake that state, Which is already too much ruinate. Come, and take leave of him, before he die.

[_Exit._

ELE. I'll follow you. Now, purple villany, Sit like a robe imperial on my back, That under thee I closelier may contrive My vengeance; foul deeds hid do sweetly thrive. Mischief, erect thy throne, and sit in state Here, here upon this head; let fools fear fate, Thus I defy my stars. I care not, I, How low I tumble down, so I mount high: Old Time, I'll wait bareheaded at thy heels, And be a footboy to thy winged hours; They shall not tell one minute out in sands, But I'll set down the number; I'll still wake, And waste these balls of sight by tossing them In busy observations upon thee. Sweet opportunity! I'll bind myself To thee in base apprenticehood so long, Till on thy naked scalp grow hair as thick As mine; and all hands shall lay hold on thee, If thou wilt lend me but thy rusty scythe, To cut down all that stand within my wrongs And my revenge. Love, dance in twenty forms Upon my beauty, that this Spanish dame May be bewitch'd and doat; her amorous flames Shall blow up the old king, consume his sons, And make all Spain a bonfire. This Tragedy being acted, hers doth begin: To shed a harlot's blood can be no sin.

[_Exit._