_Lam._ The Camp receiv'd him With acclamations of joy and welcome, And for addition to the fair reward Being a massy chain of Gold given to him By young _Peralta_'s Father, he was brought To the Infanta's presence, kiss'd her hand, And from that Lady, (greater in her goodness Than her high birth) had this encouragement: Go on young man; yet not to feed thy valour With hope of recompence to come, from me, For present satisfaction of what's past, Ask any thing that's fit for me to give, And thee to take, and be assur'd of it. _Ana._ Excellent Princess. _Vit._ And stil'd worthily The heart-bloud, nay the Soul of Soldiers. But what was his request? _Lam._ That the repeal Of _Alvarez_ makes plain: he humbly begg'd His Fathers pardon, and so movingly Told the sad story of your Uncles death That the _Infanta_ wept, and instantly Granting his suit, working the Arch-Duke to it, Their Letters were directed to the King, With whom they so prevail'd, that _Alvarez_ Was freely pardon'd. _Vit._ 'Tis not in the King To make that good. _Ana._ Not in the King? what subject Dares contradict his power? _Vit._ In this I dare, And will: and not call his prerogative In question, nor presume to limit it. I know he is [the] Master of his Laws, And may forgive the forfeits made to them, But not the injury done to my honor; And since (forgetting my brave Uncles merits And many services, under Duke _D' Alva_) He suffers him to fall, wresting from Justice The powerful sword, that would revenge his death, I'll fill with this _Astrea_'s empty hand, And in my just wreak, make this arm the Kings, My deadly hate to _Alvarez_, and his house, Which as I grew in years, hath still encreas'd, As if it call'd on time to make me man, Slept while it had no object for her fury But a weak woman, and her talk'd of Daughter: But now, since there are quarries, worth her sight Both in the father, and his hopeful son, I'll boldly cast her off, and gorge her full With both their hearts: to further which, your friendship, And oaths: will your assistance, let your deeds Make answer to me: useless are all words Till you have writ performance with your swords. [_Exeunt._ _Scæna Secunda._ _Enter_ Bobadilla _and_ Lucio. _Luc._ Go fetch my work: this Ruffe was not well starch'd, So tell the maid, 't has too much blew in it, And look you that the Partridge and the Pullen Have clean meat, and fresh water, or my Mother Is like to hear on't.