_King._ Nothing, I hope; I would not have it said That in my vengeance any fault I made. Love me! O low pretence, too feebly built! But 'tis the constant fault of dying guilt Even to the last to cry they're innocent, When their despair's so great, they can't repent. _Queen._ Thus having urged your malice to the head, You spitefully are come to rail me dead. Had I been man, and had an impious wife, With speedy fury I'd have snatched her life; Torn a broad passage open to her heart, And there have ransacked each polluted part; Triumphed and laughed to have seen the issuing flood, And wantonly have bathed my hands in blood. That had outdone the low revenge you bring, Much fitter for a woman than a king. _King._ I'm glad I know what death you'd wish to have: You would go down in silence to your grave; Remove from future fame, as present times, And bury with you, if you could, your crimes. No, I will have my justice understood, Proclaim thy falsehood and thy lust aloud. _Queen._ About it then, the noble work begin; Be proud, and boast how cruel you have been. Oh, how a monarch's glory 'twill advance! Do, quickly let it reach the ears of France. I've there a royal brother that is young, Who'll certainly revenge his sister's wrong; Into thy Spain a mighty army bring, Tumble thee from thy throne a wretched thing, And make it quite forgot thou e'er wert king. _King._ I ne'er had pleasure with her till this night: The viper finds she's crushed, and fain would bite.-- Oh! were he here, and durst maintain that word, I'd like an eagle seize the callow bird, And gripe him till the dastard craven cried; Then throw him panting by his sister's side. _Queen._ Alas! I faint and sink; my lord, your hand! [_To_ Don JOHN. My spirits fail, and I want strength to stand. _Don John._ O jealousy! A curse which none but he that bears it knows! [_Leads her to a chair._ So rich a treasure who would live to lose? _King._ The poison works, Heaven grant there were enough! She is so foul, she may be poison-proof. Now my false fair one-- _Queen._ Tyrant, hence, begone! This hour's my last, and let it be my own. Away, away! I would not leave the light With such a hated object in my sight. _King._ No, I will stay, and even thy prayers prevent; I would not give thee leisure to repent; But let thy sins all in one throng combine To plague thy soul, as thou hast tortured mine. _Queen._ Glut then your eyes, your tyrant-fury feed, And triumph; but remember, when I'm dead, Hereafter on your dying pillows you May feel those tortures which you give me now. Go on, your worst reproaches I can bear, And with them all you shall not force a tear.