QUEEN
We will not grieve at this, but with hot vengeance
Beat down this armed mischief. Malateste!
What whirlwinds can we raise to blow this storm
Back in their faces who thus shoot at me?

MALATESTE
If I were fit to be your councillor,
Thus would I speak - feign that you are with child.
The mother of the maids, and some worn ladies
Who oft have guilty being to court great bellies,
May though it not be so, get you with child
With swearing that 'tis true.

QUEEN
Say 'tis believed,
Or that it so doth prove?

MALATESTE
The joy thereof,
Together with these earthquakes, which will shake
All Spain, if they their Prince do disinherit,
So borne, of such a Queen, being only daughter
To such a brave spirit as Duke of Florence.
All this buzzed into the King, he cannot choose
But charge that all the bells in Spain echo up
This joy to heaven, that bonfires change the night
To a high noon, with beams of sparkling flames;
And that in Churches, organs, charmed with prayers,
Speak loud for your most safe delivery.