Shall call thee Jove, shall wait upon thy cup
And fill thee nectar: their enticing eyes
Shall serve as crystal, wherein thou may’st see
To dress thyself, if thou wilt smile on me.—
Smile on me, and with coronets of pearl,
And bells of gold, circling their pretty arms
In a round ivory fount these two shall swim,
And dive to make thee sport: bestow one smile,
And in a net of twisted silk and gold
In my all-naked arms thyself shall lie.”
The old king expiring, and blind with the mists of death, desires an attendant to call his daughter, who is lying drowned in tears at the bed's foot.
"King Philip. Come hither, Isabella! reach a hand,—
Yet now it shall not need; instead of thine
Death, shoving thee back, clasps his hands in mine,
And bids me come away———."
His younger son, Prince Philip, upbraids his mother and the courtiers with her lusts.—
"Call not me your son!
My father, while he liv'd, tir'd his strong arms
In bearing Christian armour 'gainst the Turks,
And spent his brains in warlike stratagems,
To bring confusion on damn'd infidels:
Whilst you, that snorted here at home, betrayed
His name to everlasting infamy;—
