_Bal_. Of this day? why, as of a new play, if it ends well all's well. All men are but Actors; now if you, being the King, should be out of your part, or the Queene out of hers or your Dons out of theirs, here's No wil never be out of his. _No_. No. _Bal_. 'Twere a lamentable peece of stuffe to see great Statesmen have vile Exits; but I hope there are nothing but plaudities in all your Eyes. _King_. Mine, I protest, are free. _Queen_. And mine, by heaven! _Mal_. Free from one goode looke till the blow be given. _King_. Wine; a full Cup crown'd to _Medina's_ health! _Med_. Your Highnesse this day so much honors me That I, to pay you what I truly owe, My life shall venture for it. _Daen_. So shall mine. _King_. _Onaelia_, you are sad: why frownes your brow? _Onae_. A foolish memory of my past ills Folds up my looke in furrowes of old care, But my heart's merry, Sir. _King_. Which mirth to heighten Your Bridegroome and your selfe first pledge this health Which we begin to our high Constable. (_Three Cups fild: 1 to the King, 2 to the Bridegroome, 3 to Onaelia, with whom the King complements_.) _Queen_. Is't speeding? _Mal_. As all our Spanish figs[219] are. _King_. Here's to _Medina's_ heart with all my heart. _Med_. My hart shal pledge your hart i'th deepest draught That ever Spanyard dranke. _King_. _Medina_ mockes me Because I wrong her with the largest Bowle: Ile change with thee, _Onaelia_. (_Mal. rages_) _Queen_. Sir, you shall not. _King_. Feare you I cannot fetch it off? _Queen_. _Malateste_! _King_. This is your scorne to her, because I am doing This poorest honour to her.--Musicke sound! It goes were it ten fadoms to the ground. _Cornets. King drinkes; Queen and Mal. storms_. _Mal_. Fate strikes with the wrong weapon. _Queen_. Sweet royall Sir, no more: it is too deepe. _Mal_. Twill hurt your health, Sir. _King_. Interrupt me in my drinke! 'tis off. _Mal_. Alas, Sir, You have drunke your last: that poyson'd bowle I fill'd, Not to be put into your hand but hers. _King_. Poyson'd? _Omnes_. Descend black speckled soule to hell. (_kil Mal. dyes_.) _Mal_. The Queene has sent me thither? _Card_. What new furie shakes now her snakes locks? _Queen_. I, I, tis I, Whose soule is torne in peeces till I send This Harlot home. _Car_. More Murders? save the lady. _Balt_. Rampant? let the Constable make a mittimus. _Med_. Keepe 'em asunder. _Car_. How is it royall sonne? _King_. I feele no poyson yet; only mine eyes Are putting out their lights: me thinks I feele Deaths Icy fingers stroking downe my face; And now I'me in a mortall cold sweat. _Queen_. Deare my Lord. _King_. Hence! call in my Physicians. _Med_. Thy Physician, Tyrant, Dwels yonder: call on him or none. _King_. Bloody _Medina_! stab'st thou, _Brutus_, too? _Daen_. As hee is so are we all.