_Alph._ More than my life.
_King._ That's much; yet I believe thee.
My mother has the judgment of the world,
And all things move by that; but, my Alphonso,
She has a cruel wit.
_Alph._ The provocation, sir.
_King._ I know it well;
But,--if thou'dst have my heart within thy hand,--
All conjurations blot the name of kings.
What honours, interest, were the world to buy him,
Shall make a brave man smile, and do a murder?
Therefore I hate the memory of Brutus,
I mean the latter, so cried up in story.
Caesar did ill, but did it in the sun,
And foremost in the field; but sneaking Brutus,
Whom none but cowards and white-livered knaves
Would dare commend, lagging behind his fellows,
His dagger in his bosom, stabbed his father.
This is a blot, which Tully's eloquence
Could ne'er wipe off, though the mistaken man
Makes bold to call those traitors,--men divine.
_Alph._ Tully was wise, but wanted constancy.
_Enter Queen Mother, and Abbot_ DELBENE.
_Qu. M._ Good-even, sir; 'tis just the time you ordered
To wait on your decrees.
_King._ Oh, madam!
_Qu. M._ Sir?
_King._ Oh mother,--but I cannot make it way;--
Chaos and shades,--'tis huddled up in night.
_Qu. M._ Speak then, for speech is morning to the mind;
It spreads the beauteous images abroad,
Which else lie furled and clouded in the soul.
_King._ You would embark me in a sea of blood.
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