I:4:1 KING.
I see my daughter?

I:4:2 SOL.
Sir, your duteous child.

I:4:3 KING.
Art thou indeed my child? I had some doubt
I was a father.

I:4:4 SOL.
These are bitter words.

I:4:5 KING.
Even as thy conduct.

I:4:6 SOL.
Then it would appear
My conduct and my life are but the same.

I:4:7 KING.
I thought thou wert the Infanta of Castille,
Heir to our realm, the paragon of Spain
The Princess for whose smiles crowned Christendom
Sends forth its sceptred rivals. Is that bitter?
Or bitter is it with such privilege,
And standing on life's vantage ground, to cross
A nation's hope, that on thy nice career
Has gaged its heart?