And minde more mutable then fickle windes?
Why waile I, then, wheres hope of no redresse?
O, yes, complaining makes my greefe seeme lesse.
My late ambition hath distaind my faith,
My breach of faith occaisioned bloudie warres,
Those bloudie warres haue spent my treasur[i]e,
And with my treasur[i]e my peoples blood,
And with the blood my ioy and best beloued, --
My best beloued, my sweet and onely sonne!
O, wherefore went I not to warre my-selfe?
The cause was mine; I might haue died for both.
My yeeres were mellow, but his young and greene:
My death were naturall, but his was forced.

ALEX. No doubt, my liege, but still the prince suruiues.

VICE. Suruiues! I, where?

ALEX. In Spaine, a prisoner by michance of warre.

VICE. Then they haue slaine him for his fathers fault.

ALEX. That were a breach to common lawe of armes.

VICE. They recke no lawes that meditate reuenge.

ALEX. His ransomes worth will stay from foule reuenge.

VICE. No; if he liued, the newes would soone be heere.