[_Puls off his disguise_.

_Duke_. How now, my Lords! this is a myracle,
To shake off thirtie yeares so sodeinlie
And turne from feeble age to flourishing youth!

_Alb_. But he my Lord that wrought this miracle,
Is not of power to free himselfe from death,
Through the performance of this suddaine change.

_Duke_. No, were he the chiefest hope of Christendome,
He should not live for this presumption:
Use no excuse, _Alenso_, for thy life;
My doome of death shall be irrevocable.

_Alen_. Ill fare his soule that would extenuate
The rigor of your life-confounding doome!
I am prepar'd with all my hart to die,
For thats th' end of humaine miserie.

_Duke_. Then thus: you shall be hang'd immediately,
For your illusion of the Magistrates
With borrowed shapes of false antiquitie.

_Alen_. Thrice-happy sentence, which I do imbrace
With a more fervent and unfained zeale
Then an ambicious rule-desiring man
Would do a Iem-bedecked Diadem,
Which brings more watchfull cares and discontent
Then pompe or honor can remunerate.