SPAIN. Farewell, then, Don Andrea; to thy charge. Lords, let us in; joy shall be now our guest: Let’s in to celebrate our second feast. [_Exeunt omnes, manet_ LORENZO _solus._
LOR. Andrea’s gone embassador; Lorenzo is not dreamt on in this age. Hard fate, When villains sit not in the highest state! Ambition’s plumes, that flourished in our court, Severe authority has dashed with justice; And policy and pride walk like two exiles, Giving attendance, that were once attended; And we rejected, that were once high-honoured. I hate Andrea; ’cause he aims at honour, When my purest thoughts work in a pitchy vale, Which are as different as heaven and hell. One peers for day, the other gapes for night. That yawning beldam, with her jetty skin-- ’Tis she I hug as mine effeminate bride, For such complexions best appease my pride. I have a lad in pickle of this stamp, A melancholy, discontented courtier, Whose famished jaws look like the chap of death; Upon whose eyebrows hangs damnation; Whose hands are washed in rape and murders bold: Him with a golden bait will I allure (For courtiers will do anything for gold), To be Andrea’s death at his return. He loves my sister, that shall cost his life; So she a husband, he shall lose a wife. O sweet, sweet policy, I hug thee! good; Andrea’s Hymen’s-draught shall be in blood. [_Exit._
_Enter_ HORATIO _at one door_, ANDREA _at another._
HOR. Whither in such haste, my second self?
AND. I’faith, my dear bosom, to take solemn leave Of a most weeping creature.
HOR. See, see, she meets you here: And what is it to love, and be lov’d dear!
BEL. I have heard of your honour, gentle breast, I do not like it now so well, methinks.
AND. What! not to have honour bestowed on me?
BEL. O, yes; but not a wandering honour, dear; I could afford well, diddest thou stay here. Could honour melt itself into thy veins, And thou the fountain, I could wish it so, If thou wouldst remain here with me, and not go.
BEL. Tribute! alas, that Spain cannot of peace Forbear a little coin, the Indies being so near. And yet this is not all: I know you are too hot, Too full of spleen for an embassador, And will lean much to honour.
BEL. Nay, hear me, dear! I know you will be rough And violent; and Portugal hath a tempestuous son, Stamp’d with the mark of fury, and you too.