SEBASTIAN Hail my good son I come to be thy ghostly father.
KING Ha? My child! 'Tis my Sebastian, or some spirit Sent in his shape to fright me.
BALTHAZAR 'Tis no goblin, Sir, feel. Your own flesh and blood, and much younger than you though he be bald, and calls you son. Had I been as ready to have cut his sheep's throat, as you were to send him to the shambles <61>, he had bleated no more. There's less chalk upon your score of sins by these round O'es <62>.
KING Oh my dull soul look up, thou art somewhat lighter. Noble Medina, see Sebastian lives. Onaelia cease to weep, Sebastian lives. Fetch me my crown. My sweetest pretty Friar Can my hands do't, I'll raise thee one step higher. Thou'st been in heaven's house all this while sweet boy?
KING Thou could'st n'er fare better. Religious houses are those hives where bees Make honey for men's souls. I tell thee boy, A Friary is a cube, which strongly stands, Fashioned by men, supported by heaven's hands. Orders of holy priesthood are as high I'th eyes of Angels, as a King's dignity. Both these unto a Crown give the full weight, And both are thine. You that our contract know, See how I seal it with this marriage. My blessing and Spain's kingdom both be thine.
ONAELIA Doff that Friar's coarse grey. And since he's crowned a King, clothe him like one.
KING Oh no. Those are right sovereign ornaments. Had I been clothed so, I had never filled Spain's chronicle with my black calumny. My work is almost finished. Where's my Queen?
KING Onaelia! Your hand Paulina too, Onaelia yours. This hand, the pledge of my twice broken faith, By you usurped is her inheritance. My love is turned, see as my fate is turned, Thus they today laugh, yesterday which mourned. I pardon thee my death. Let her be sent Back into Florence with a trebled dowry. Death comes, oh now I see what late I feared! A contract broke, though pieced up ne'r so well, Heaven sees, earth suffers, but it ends in hell.
QUEEN Since the bright sphere I moved in falls, alas what make I here?
MEDINA The hammers of black mischief now cease beating, Yet some irons still are heating. You Sir Bridegroom, Set all this while up as a mark to shoot at, We here discharge you of your bedfellow, She loves no barber's washing <63>.