University of Virginia Library

Scena. I.

Enter Emanuel King of Portugal, Prince Philip, Mendoza, Alvaro, with Drums and Souldiers marching.
King Port.
Poor Spain, how is the body of thy peace
Mangled and torn by an ambitious Moor!
How is thy Prince and Counsellors abus'd,
And trodden under the base foot of scorn:
Wrong'd Lords, Emanuel of Portugal partakes
A falling share in all your miseries:
And though the tardy-hand of slow delay
With-held us from preventing your mishaps;
Yet shall revenge dart black confusion
Into the bosom of that damned fiend.

Phil.
But is it possible our Mother Queen
Should countenance his ambition.

Alv.
Her advice is as a Steers-man to direct his course.
Besides, as we by circumstance have learnt,
She means to marry him.

Phil.
Then here upon my knees
I pluck allegiance from her; all that love
Which by innative duty I did owe her,
Shall henceforth be converted into hate.
This will confirm the worlds opinion
That I am base born, and the damned Moor
Had interest in my birth, this wrong alone
Gives new fire to the cinders of my rage:
I may be well transformed from what I am,
When a black divel is husband to my dam.

K. Port.
Prince, let thy rage give way to patience,
And set a velvet brow upon the face
Of wrinkled anger, our keen swords,
Must right these wrongs, and not light airy words.

Phil.
Yet words may make the edge of rage more sharp,
And whet a blunted courage with revenge.

Alv.
Here's none wants whetting, for our keen resolves
Are steel'd unto the back with double wrongs;
Wrongs that would make a handlesse man take arms;
Wrongs that would make a coward resolute.

Card.
Why then join all our severall wrongs in one,
And from these wrongs assume a firm resolv,
To send this divell to damnation.

Drums afar off.
Phil.
I hear the sound of his approaching march,
Stand fair; Saint Jaques for the right of Spain.

To them, Enter the Moor, Roderigo, Christofero, with drums, colours, and souldiers, marching bravely.
Eleaz.
Bastard of Spain?

Phil.
Thou true stamp'd son of hell,
Thy pedigree is written in thy face.

Alarum, and a Battall, the Moor prevails: All Exeunt.