No.

_Bal_. 'Twere a lamentable peece of stuffe to see great Statesmen
have vile Exits; but I hope there are nothing but plaudities in all
your Eyes.

_King_. Mine, I protest, are free.

_Queen_. And mine, by heaven!

_Mal_. Free from one goode looke till the blow be given.

_King_. Wine; a full Cup crown'd to _Medina's_ health!

_Med_. Your Highnesse this day so much honors me
That I, to pay you what I truly owe,
My life shall venture for it.

_Daen_. So shall mine.

_King_. _Onaelia_, you are sad: why frownes your brow?

_Onae_. A foolish memory of my past ills
Folds up my looke in furrowes of old care,
But my heart's merry, Sir.

_King_. Which mirth to heighten
Your Bridegroome and your selfe first pledge this health
Which we begin to our high Constable.

(_Three Cups fild: 1 to the King, 2 to the Bridegroome,
3 to Onaelia, with whom the King complements_.)

_Queen_. Is't speeding?

_Mal_. As all our Spanish figs[219] are.

_King_. Here's to _Medina's_ heart with all my heart.

_Med_. My hart shal pledge your hart i'th deepest draught
That ever Spanyard dranke.

_King_. _Medina_ mockes me
Because I wrong her with the largest Bowle:
Ile change with thee, _Onaelia_.

(_Mal. rages_)

_Queen_. Sir, you shall not.

_King_. Feare you I cannot fetch it off?

_Queen_. _Malateste_!

_King_. This is your scorne to her, because I am doing
This poorest honour to her.--Musicke sound!
It goes were it ten fadoms to the ground.

_Cornets. King drinkes; Queen and Mal. storms_.

_Mal_. Fate strikes with the wrong weapon.

_Queen_. Sweet royall Sir, no more: it is too deepe.

_Mal_. Twill hurt your health, Sir.

_King_. Interrupt me in my drinke! 'tis off.

_Mal_. Alas, Sir,
You have drunke your last: that poyson'd bowle I fill'd,
Not to be put into your hand but hers.

_King_. Poyson'd?

_Omnes_. Descend black speckled soule to hell.
(_kil Mal. dyes_.)

_Mal_. The Queene has sent me thither?

_Card_. What new furie shakes now her snakes locks?

_Queen_. I, I, tis I,
Whose soule is torne in peeces till I send
This Harlot home.

_Car_. More Murders? save the lady.

_Balt_. Rampant? let the Constable make a mittimus.

_Med_. Keepe 'em asunder.

_Car_. How is it royall sonne?

_King_. I feele no poyson yet; only mine eyes
Are putting out their lights: me thinks I feele
Deaths Icy fingers stroking dow