_Onae_. Oh you have sworne false oathes upon that booke. _King_. Why, then by this. _Onae_. Take heed you print it deeply. How for your concubine (Bride, I cannot say)? She staines your bed with black Adultery; And though her fame maskes in a fairer shape Then mine to the worlds eye, yet (King) you know Mine honour is less strumpetted than hers, However butcher'd in opinion. _King_. This way for her: the contract (which thou hast) By best advice of all our Cardinals To day shall be enlarg'd till it be made Past all dissolving: then to our Counsell-Table Shall she be call'd, that read aloud, she told The Church commands her quicke returne for _Florence_, With such a dower as _Spaine_ received with her; And that they will not hazard heavens dire curse To yeeld to a match unlawfull, which shall taint The issue of the King with Bastardy. This done, in State Majestic come you forth (Our new-crown'd Queene) in sight of all our Peeres. --Are you resolv'd? _Onae_. To doubt of this were Treason Because the King has sworne it. _King_. And will keepe it. Deliver up the Contract then, that I May make this day end with my misery. _Onae_. Here, as the dearest Jewell of my fame, Lock'd I this parchment from all viewing eyes; This your Indenture held alone the life Of my suppos'd dead honour: yet (behold) Into your hands I redeliver it. Oh keepe it, Sir, as you should keepe that vow To which (being sign'd by Heaven) even Angels bowe. _King_. 'Tis in the Lions pawe, and who dares snatch it? Now to your Beads and Crucifix agen. _Onae_. Defend me, heaven! _King_. Pray there may come Embassadors from _France_: Their followers are good Customers. _Onae_. Save me from madnesse! _King_. 'Twill raise the price being the Kings Mistris. _Onae_. You doe but counterfeit to mocke my joyes. _King_. Away, bold strumpet. _Onae_. Are there eyes in heaven to see this? _King_. Call and try: here's a whore curse, To fall in that beleefe which her sunnes nurse. [_Exit_. _Enter Cornego_. _Corn_. How now? what quarter of the Moone has she cut out now? My Lord puts me into a wise office, to be a mad womans keeper! Why, Madam? _Onae_. Ha! where is the King, thou slave? _Corn_. Let go your hold or I'le fall upon you, as I am a man. _Onae_. Thou treacherous caitiffe, where's the King? _Corn_. Hee's gone, but no so farre gone as you are. _Onae_. Cracke all in sunder, oh you battlements, And grind me into powder! _Corn_. What powder? come, what powder? when did you ever see a woman grinded into powder? I am sure some of your sex powder men and pepper 'em too. _Onae_. Is there a vengeance Yet lacking to my ruine? let it fall, Now let it fall upon me! _Corn_. No, there has too much falne upon you already.