I, my good lord. VICE. Then rest we heere a-while in our vnrest; And feede our sorrowes with inward sighes, For deepest cares break neuer into teares. But wherefore sit I in a regall throne? This better fits a wretches endles moane. Yet this is higher then my fortunes reach, And therefore better then my state deserues. Falles to the grounde. I, I, this earth, image of melancholly, Seeks him whome fates [adiudge] to miserie! Heere let me lye! Now am I at the lowest! Qui iacet in terra non habet vnde cadat. In me concumpsit vires fortuna nocendo, Nil superest vt iam possit obesse magis. Yes, Fortune may bereaue me of my crowne—     Heere, take it now; let Fortune doe her worst, She shall now rob me of this sable weed. O, no, she enuies none but pleasent things. Such is the folly of despightfull chance, Fortune is blinde and sees not my deserts, So is she deafe and heares not my laments; And, coulde she heare, yet is she willfull mad, And therefore will not pittie my distresse. Suppose that she coulde pittie me, what then? What helpe can be expected at her hands Whose foote is standing on a rowling stone And minde more mutable then fickle windes? Why waile I, then, wheres hope of no redresse? O, yes, complaining makes my greefe seeme lesse. My late ambition hath distaind my faith, My breach of faith occaisioned bloudie warres, Those bloudie warres haue spent my treasur[i]e, And with my treasur[i]e my peoples blood, And with the blood my ioy and best beloued,—     My best beloued, my sweet and onely sonne! O, wherefore went I not to warre my-selfe? The cause was mine; I might haue died for both. My yeeres were mellow, but his young and greene:     My death were naturall, but his was forced. ALEX. No doubt, my liege, but still the prince suruiues. VICE. Suruiues! I, where? ALEX. In Spaine, a prisoner by michance of warre. VICE. Then they haue slaine him for his fathers fault. ALEX. That were a breach to common lawe of armes. VICE. They recke no lawes that meditate reuenge. ALEX. His ransomes worth will stay from foule reuenge. VICE. No; if he liued, the newes would soone be heere. VILLUP. My soueraign, pardon the author of ill newes, And Ile bewray the fortune of thy sonne. VICE. Speake on; Ile guerdon thee, what-ere it be. Mine eare is ready to receiue ill newes, My hart growne hard gainst mischiefes battery; Stand vp, I say, and tell thy tale at large. VILLUP. Then heare that truth which these mine eies have seene:     When both the armies were in battell ioyned. Don Balthazar amidst the thickest troupes, To winne renowme, 

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