EMBASS. Sad is our king, and Portingale laments,
Supposing that Don Balthazar is slaine.
BAL. [aside] So am I, slaine by beauties tirannie! --
You see, my lord, how Balthazar is slaine:
I frolike with the Duke of Castilles sonne,
Wrapt euery houre in pleasures of the court,
And graste with fauours of his Maiestie.
KING. Put off your greetings till our feast be done;
Now come and sit with vs, and taste our cheere.
Sit to the banquet.
Sit downe, young prince, you are our second guest;
Brother, sit downe; and nephew, take your placel
Signior Horatio, waite thou vpon our cup,
For well thou hast deserued to be honored.
Now, lordings, fall too: Spaine is Portugall,
And Portugall is Spaine; we both are freends;
Tribute is paid, and we enioy our right.
But where is olde Hieronimo, our marhsall?
He promised vs, in honor of our guest,
To grace our banquet with some pompous iest.
Enter HIERONIMO with a DRUM, three KNIGHTS,
each with scutchin; then he fethces three
KINGS; they take their crownes and them
captiue.
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