a_.

_Buz_. Hee's come, hee's come, my Lord! _Don Pedro Gusman_ is still
alive,--see, see!

_Mac_. Let us descend to meet a happinesse
Crownes all our expectations.

_Pedro_. Whilst I meet
A Thunder strikes me dead. Oh, poore, wrongd Lady,
The poyson which the villaine poures on thy honour
Runs more into my veines then all the Venome
He spitts at me or my deare Boy, his brother.
My Lords, your pardon that I am transported
With shame & sorrow thus beyond my selfe,
Not paying to you my duty.

_All_. Your love, _Don Pedro_.

_Mac_. Conceale your selfe a while; your sons wele send for,
And shew them deaths face presently.

_Pedro_. Ile play a part in't. [_Exit_.

_Mac_. Let them be fetcht, & speake not of a father.

_Ten_. This shall be done. [_Exit_.

_Mac_. Is your Compassion, Lady, yet awake?
Remember that the scaffold, hangman, sword,
And all the Instruments death playes upon,
Are hither calld by you; 'tis you may stay them.
When at the Barre there stood your Ravisher
You would have savd him, then you made your choyce
To marry him: will you then kill your husband?

_Ele_. Why did that husband then rather chuse death
Then me to be his bride? is his life mine?
Why, then, because the Law makes me his Judge,
Ile be, like you, not cruell, but reprieve him;
My prisoner shall kisse mercy.

_Mac_. Y'are a good Lady.

_Med_. Lady, untill they come, repose your selfe.

[_Exit Eleonora_.

_Mac_. How now? so soone come back? why thus returned?

_Enter Pike & a Gentleman, with Letters_.

_Gen_. Our Journey to _Madrid_ the Kinge himselfe
Cutts off, by these his royall letters sent
Upon the wings of speed to all your Graces.
He lay one night since at your house, my Lord
Where, by your noble Wife, he had a wellcome
Fitting his greatnes & your will.

_Alq_. I'me glad of't.

_Mac_. The King, our Master, writes heere, _Englishman_,
He has lost a subiect by you; yet referres
Himselfe to us about you.

_Pike_. Againe, I stand heere
To lay my own life downe, please his high Maiesty
To take it: for what's lost his fate to fall
Was _fortune de la guerre_, & at the feete
Of his most royal Maiesty & at yours
(My Princely Lords & Judges) low as th'earth
I throw my wretched selfe & begg his mercy.

_Mac_. Stand up; that mercy which you aske is signd
By our most