BAL. Yes, to your gracious self must I complain, In whose fair answer lies my remedy, On whose perfection all my thoughts attend, On whose aspect mine eyes find beauty's bower, In whose translucent breast my heart is lodg'd. BEL. Alas, my lord! These are but words of course, And but devis'd to drive me from this place. She, going in, lets fall her glove, which HORATIO, coming out, takes up. HOR. Madame, your glove. BEL. Thanks, good Horatio; take it for thy pains. [BEL-IMPERIA exits.] BAL. Signior Horatio stoop'd in happy time! HOR. I reap'd more grace that I deserv'd or hop'd. LOR. My lord, be not dismay'd for what is past; You know that women oft are humorous: These clouds will overblow with little wind; Let me alone, I'll scatter them myself. Meanwhile let us devise to spend the time In some delightful sports and revelling. HOR. The king, my lords, is coming hither straight To feast the Portingal ambassador; Things were in readiness before I came. BAL. Then here it fits us to attend the king, To welcome hither our ambassador, And learn my father and my country's health. Enter the banquet, TRUMPETS, the KING, and AMBASSADOR. KING. See, lord ambassador, how Spain entreats Their prisoner Balthazar, thy viceroy's son: We pleasure more in kindness than in wars. AMBASS. Sad is our king, and Portingal laments, Supposing that Don Balthazar is slain. BAL. [aside] So am I, slain by beauty's tyranny!-- You see, my lord, how Balthazar is slain: I frolic with the Duke of Castille's son, Wrapp'd every hour in pleasures of the court, And grac'd with favours of his Majesty. KING. Put off your greetings till our feast be done; Now come and sit with us, and taste our cheer. Sit to the banquet. Sit down, young prince, you are our second guest; Brother, sit down; and nephew, take your place. Signior Horatio, wait thou upon our cup, For well thou hast deserved to be honour'd. Now, lordings, fall too: Spain is Portugal, And Portugal is Spain; we both are friends; Tribute is paid, and we enjoy our right. But where is old Hieronimo, our marshall? He promis'd us, in honour of our guest, To grace our banquet with some pompous jest. Enter HIERONIMO with a DRUM, three KNIGHTS, each with scutcheon; then he fetches three KINGS; they take their crowns and them captive. Hieronimo, this makes content mine eye, Although I sound not well the mystery. HIERO. The first arm'd knight that hung his scutcheon up He takes the scutcheon and gives it to the KING.