on our owne strength.

_Hub_. Who must be King?

_Within: A Hubert, a Hubert a Hubert_!

_Hub_. Deliver to my hand that reverent [_sic_] man.

_Epi_. Take him and torture him, for he cald down Vengeance
On _Henricks_ head.

_Hub_. Good _Eugenius_, lift thy hands up,
For thou art say'd from _Henricke_ and from these.
You heare what ecchoes
Rebound from earth to heaven, from heaven to earth,
Casting the name of King onely on me?
This golden apple is a tempting fruit;
It is within my reach; this sword can touch it,
And lop the weake branch off on which it hangs.
Which of you all would spurne at such a Starre,
Lay it i'th the dust when 'tis let down from heaven
For him to weare?

_Anton_. Who then must weare that Starre?

_Within: Hubert, Hubert, Hubert_!

_Hub_. The Oracle tells you; Oracle? 'tis a voyce
From above tells you; for the peoples tongues,
When they pronounce good things, are ty'd to chaines
Of twenty thousand linkes, which chaines are held
By one supernall hand, and cannot speake
But what that hand will suffer. I have then
The people on my side; I have the souldiers;
I have that army which your rash young King
Had bent against the Christians,--they now are mine:
I am the Center, and they all are lines
Meeting in me. If, therefore, these strong sinewes,
The Souldiers and the Commons, have a vertue
To lift me into the Throne, Ile leape into it.
Will you consent or no? be quick in answer;
I must be swift in execution else.

_Omnes_. Let us consult.

_Hub_. Doe, and doe't quickly.

_Eugen_. O noble Sir, if you be King shoot forth
Bright as a Sunne-beame, and dry up these vapours
That choake this kingdome; dry the seas of blood
Flowing from Christians, and drinke up the teares
Of those alive, halfe slaughter'd in their feares.

_Hub_. Father, Ile not offend you.--Have you done?
So long chusing one Crowne?

_Anton_. Let Drums and Trumpets proclaime
_Hubert_ our King!

_Omnes_. Sound Drummes and Trumpets!

_Hub_. I have it, then, as well by voyce as sword;
For should you holde it backe it will be mine.
I claime it, then, by conquest; fields are wonne
By yeelding as by strokes: Yet, noble _Vandals_,
I will lay by the Conquest and acknowledge
That your hands and your hearts the pinnacles are
On which my greatnesse mounts unto this height.
And now in sight of you and heaven I sweare
By those new sacred fires kindled within me,
'Tis not your ho[o]pe of Gold my