HOR. No; that was it for which I chiefly strove, Nor stepp'd I back till I recover'd him.

I took him up, and wound him in mine arms, And, wielding him unto my private tent, There laid him down and dew'd him with my tears, And sigh'd and sorrow'd as became a friend.

But neither friendly sorrow, sighs and tears Could win pale Death from his usurped right.

Yet this I did, and less I could not do: I saw him honour'd with due funeral.

This scarf I pluck'd from off his lifeless arm, And wear it in remembrance of my friend.

BEL. I know the scarf: would he had kept it still!

For, had he liv'd, he would have kept it still, And worn it for his Bel-imperia's sake; For 'twas my favour at his last depart.

But now wear thou it both for him and me; For, after him, thou hast deserv'd it best.

But, for thy kindness in his life and death, Be sure, while Bel-imperia's life endures, She will be Don Horatio's thankful friend.

HOR. And, madame, Don Horatio will not slack Humbly to serve fair Bel-imperia.

But now, if your good liking stand thereto, I'll crave your pardon to go seek the prince; For so the duke, your father, gave me charge.

Exit.

BEL. Aye, go, Horatio; leave me here alone, For solitude best fits my cheerless mood.-- Yet what avails to wail Andreas death, From whence Horatio proves my second love?

Had he not lov'd Andrea as he did, He could not sit in Bel-imperia's thoughts.

But how can love find harbour in my breast, Till I revenge the death of my belov'd?

Yes, second love shall further my revenge: I'll love Horatio, my Andrea's friend, The more to spite the prince that wrought his end; And, where Don Balthazar, that slew my love, Himself now pleads for favor at my hands, He shall, in rigour of my just disdain, Reap long repentance for his murderous deed,-- For what was't else but murderous cowardice, So many to oppress one valiant knight, Without respect of honour in the fight?

And here he comes that murder'd my delight.

Enter LORENZO and BALTHAZAR.

LOR. Sister, what means this melancholy walk?

BEL. That for a-while I wish no company.

LOR. But here the prince is come to visit you.

BEL. That argues that he lives in liberty.

BAL. No madam, but in pleasing servitude.

BEL. Your prison then, belike, is your conceit.

BAL. Aye, by conceit my freedom is enthrall'd.

BEL. Then with conceit enlarge yourself again.

BAL. What if conceit have laid my heart to gage?

BEL. Pay that you borrow'd, and recover it.

BAL. I die if it return from whence it lies.

BEL. A heartless man, and live? A miracle!

BAL. Aye, lady, love can work such miracles.

LOR. Tush, tush, my lord! let go these ambages, And in plain terms acquaint her with your love.

BEL. What boots complaint, when there's no remedy?

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 amba.s.sador; Things were in readiness before I came.

BAL. Then here it fits us to attend the king, To welcome hither our amba.s.sador, And learn my father and my country's health.

Enter the banquet, TRUMPETS, the KING, and AMBa.s.sADOR.

KING. See, lord amba.s.sador, how Spain entreats Their prisoner Balthazar, thy viceroy's son: We pleasure more in kindness than in wars.

AMBa.s.s. 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