_Lus._ My lords, we're pleased to thank you, though we know 'Tis but your duty now to wish it so. _1st Noble._ That shine makes us all happy. _3rd Noble._ His grace frowns. _2nd Noble._ Yet we must say he smiles. _1st Noble._ I think we must. _Lus._ That foul incontinent duchess we have banished; The bastard shall not live. After these revels, I'll begin strange ones: he and the step-sons Shall pay their lives for the first subsidies; We must not frown so soon, else't had been now. [_Aside._ _1st Noble._ My gracious lord, please you prepare for pleasure. The masque is not far off. _Lus._ We are for pleasure. Beshrew thee, what art thou? thou mad'st me start! Thou has committed treason. A blazing star! _1st Noble._ A blazing star! O, where, my lord? _Lus._ Spy out. _2nd Noble._ See, see, my lords, a wondrous dreadful one! _Lus._ I am not pleased at that ill-knotted fire, That bushing, staring star. Am I not duke? It should not quake me now. Had it appeared Before, it I might then have justly feared; But yet they say, whom art and learning weds, When stars wear locks, they threaten great men's heads: Is it so? you are read, my lords. _1st Noble._ May it please your grace, It shows great anger. _Lus._ That does not please our grace. _2nd Noble._ Yet here's the comfort, my lord: many times, When it seems most near, it threatens farthest off. _Lus._ Faith, and I think so too. _1st Noble._ Beside, my lord, You're gracefully established with the loves Of all your subjects; and for natural death, I hope it will be threescore years a-coming. _Lus._ True? no more but threescore years? _1st Noble._ Fourscore, I hope, my lord. _2nd Noble._ And fivescore, I. _3rd Noble._ But 'tis my hope, my lord, you shall ne'er die. _Lus._ Give me thy hand; these others I rebuke: He that hopes so is fittest for a duke: Thou shalt sit next me; take your places, lords; We're ready now for sports; let 'em set on: You thing! we shall forget you quite anon! _3rd Noble._ I hear 'em coming, my lord. _Enter the Masque of revengers:_ VENDICE _and_ HIPPOLITO, _with two_ Lords. _Lus._ Ah, 'tis well! Brothers and bastard, you dance next in hell! [_Aside._ [_They dance; at the end they steal out their swords, and kill the four seated at the table. Thunder._ _Ven._ Mark, thunder! Dost know thy cue, thou big-voiced crier? Dukes' groans are thunder's watchwords. _Hip._ So, my lords, you have enough. _Ven._ Come, let's away, no lingering. _Hip._ Follow! go! [_Exeunt except_ VENDICE. _Ven._ No power is angry when the lustful die; When thunder claps, heaven likes the tragedy. [_Exit._ _Lus._ O, O!