Onae.  I’le drinke it downe into my soule at once.

Car.  You shall.

Onae.  But sweare.

Car.  What conjurations can more bind mine oath?

Onae.  But did you sweare in earnest?

Car.  Come, you trifle.

Onae.  No marvell, for my hopes have bin so drown’d I still despaire.  Say on.

Car.  The King repents.

Onae.  Pray, that agen, my Lord.

Car.  The King repents.

Onae.  His wrongs to me?

Car.  His wrongs to you:  the sense Of sinne has pierc’d his soule.

Onae.  Blest penitence!

Car.  ’Has turn’d his eyes[184] into his leprous bosome,
And like a King vowes execution
On all his traiterous passions.

Onae.  God-like Justice!

Car.  Intends in person presently to begge Forgivenesse for his Acts of heaven and you.

Onae.  Heaven pardon him; I shall.

Car.  Will marry you.

Onae.  Umph! marry me? will he turne Bigamist?  When, when?

Car.  Before the morrow Sunne hath rode Halfe his dayes journey; will send home his Queene As one that staines his bed and can produce Nothing but bastard Issue to his Crowne.—­ Why, how now? lost in wonder and amazement?

Onae.  I am so stor’d with joy that I can now Strongly weare out more yeares of misery Than I have liv’d.

Enter King.

Car.  You need not:  here’s the King.

King.  Leave us.
                     [Exit Car.

Onae.  With pardon, Sir, I will prevent you And charge upon you first.

King.  ’Tis granted; doe.—­ But stay; what meane these Embleames of distresse?  My Picture so defac’d! oppos’d against A holy Crosse! roome hung in blacke, and you Drest like chiefe Mourner at a Funerall!

Onae.  Looke backe upon your guilt (deare Sir), and then
The cause that now seemes strange explaines it selfe. 
This and the Image of my living wrongs
Is still confronted by me to beget
Griefe like my shame, whose length may outlive Time: 
This Crosse the object of my wounded soule,
To which I pray to keepe me from despaire,
That ever, as the sight of one throwes up
Mountaines of sorrowes on my accursed head,
Turning to that, Mercy may checke despaire
And bind my hands from wilfull violence.

King.  But who hath plaid the Tyrant with me thus, And with such dangerous spite abus’d my picture?