heere he comes that murdred my delight. Enter LORENZO and BALTHAZAR. LOR. Sister, what meanes this melanchollie walke? BEL. That for a-while I wish no company. LOR. But heere the prince is come to visite you. BEL. That argues that he liues in libertie. BAL. No madam, but in pleasing seruitude. BEL. Your prison then, belike, is your conceit. BAL. I, by conceite my freedome is enthralde. BEL. Then with conceite enlarge your-selfe againe. BAL. What if conceite haue laid my hart to gage? BEL. Pay that you borrowed, and recouer it. BAL. I die if it returne from whence it lyes. BEL. A hartles man, and liue? A miracle! BAL. I, lady, loue can work such miracles. LOR. Tush, tush, my lord! let goe these ambages, And in plaine tearmes acquaint her with your loue. BEL. What bootes complaint, when thers no remedy? BAL. Yes, to your gracios selfe must I complaine, In whose faire answere lyes my remedy, On whose perfection all my thoughts attend, On whose aspect mine eyes finde beauties bowre, In whose translucent brest my hart is lodgde. BEL. Alas, my lord! there but words of course, And but deuise to driue me from this place. She, going in, lets fall her gloue, which HORATIO, comming out, takes vp. HOR. Madame, your gloue. BEL. Thanks, good Horatio; take it for thy paines.                  [BEL-IMPERIA exits.]    BAL. Signior Horatio stoopt in happie time! HOR. I reapt more grace that I deseru'd or hop'd. LOR. My lord, be not dismaid for what is past; You know that women oft are humerous:     These clouds will ouerblow with little winde; Let me alone, Ill scatter them my-selfe. Meane-while let vs deuise to spend the time In some delightfull sports and reuelling. HOR. The king, my lords, is comming hither straight To feast the Portingall embassadour; Things were in readiness before I came. BAL. Then heere it fits vs to attend the king, To welcome hither our embassadour, And learne my father and my countries health. Enter the banquet, TRUMPETS, the KING, and EMBASSADOUR. KING. See, lord embassador, how Spaine intreats Their prisoner Balthazar, thy viceroyes sonne:     We pleasure more in kindenes than in warres. EMBASS. Sad is our king, and Portingale laments, Supposing that Don Balthazar is slaine. BAL. [aside]  So am I, slaine by beauties tirannie!—     You see, my lord, how Balthazar is slaine:     I frolike with the Duke of Castilles sonne, Wrapt euery houre in pleasures of the court, And graste with fauours of his Maiestie. KING. Put off your greetings till our feast be done; Now come and sit with 

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