_Alc._ Tut, son, I'll help you of that disease quickly, for I can hold thee: ask thy mother, knave, what cunning I have to ease a woman when a qualm of kindness comes too near her stomach; let me but clasp mine arms about her body, and say my prayers in her bosom, and she shall be healed presently. _Radag._ Traitor unto my princely majesty, How dar'st thou lay thy hands upon a king? _Samia._ No traitor, Radagon, but true is he: What, hath promotion blearèd thus thine eye, To scorn thy father when he visits thee? Alas, my son, behold with ruthful eyes Thy parents robb'd of all their worldly weal By subtle means of usury and guile: The judge's ears are deaf and shut up close; All mercy sleeps: then be thou in these plunges[96] A patron to thy mother in her pains: Behold thy brother almost dead for food: O, succour us, that first did succour thee! _Radag._ What, succour me! false callet,[97] hence, avaunt! Old dotard, pack! move not my patience: I know you not; kings never look so low. _Samia._ You know us not! O Radagon, you know That, knowing us, you know your parents then; Thou know'st this womb first brought thee forth to light: I know these paps did foster thee, my son. _Alc._ And I know he hath had many a piece of bread and cheese at my hands, as proud as he is; that know I. _Thras._ I wait no hope of succour in this place, Where children hold their fathers in disgrace. _Radag._ Dare you enforce the furrows of revenge Within the brows of royal Radagon? Villain, avaunt! hence, beggars, with your brats!-- Marshal, why whip you not these rogues away, That thus disturb our royal majesty? _Cles._ Mother, I see it is a wondrous thing, From base estate for to become a king; For why, methink, my brother in these fits Hath got a kingdom, and hath lost his wits. _Radag._ Yet more contempt before my royalty? Slaves, fetch out tortures worse than Tityus' plagues, And tear their tongues from their blasphémous heads. _Thras._ I'll get me gone, though wo-begone with grief: No hope remains:--come, Alcon, let us wend. _Radag._ 'Twere best you did, for fear you catch your bane. [_Exit_ THRASYBULUS. _Samia._ Nay, traitor, I will haunt thee to the death: Ungracious son, untoward, and perverse, I'll fill the heavens with echoes of thy pride, And ring in every ear thy small regard, That dost despise thy parents in their wants; And breathing forth my soul before thy feet, My curses still shall haunt thy hateful head, And being dead, my ghost shall thee pursue. _Enter_ RASNI, _attended on by his_ Magi _and_ Kings. _Rasni._ How now! what mean these outcries in our court, Where naught should sound but harmonies of heaven? What maketh Radagon so passionate? _Samia._ Justice, O king, justice against my son! _Rasni._ Thy son! what son?