A Collection of Old English Plays, Volume 1

by Unknown

THE NOBLE SPANISH SOULDIER.

Actus Primus.

SCAENA PRIMA.

Enter in Magnificent state, to the sound of lowd musicke, the King and Queene as from Church, attended by the Cardinall, Count Malateste, Daenia, Roderigo, Valasco, Alba, Carlo, and some waiting Ladies. The King and Queen with Courtly Complements salute and part; she with one halfe attending her; King, Cardinall and th'other halfe stay, the King seeming angry and desirous to be rid of them too.—King, Cardinal, Daenia, &c.

King. Give us what no man here is master of,
Breath; leave us, pray: my father Cardinall
Can by the Physicke of Philosophy
Set al agen in order. Leave us, pray.

[Exeunt.

Card. How is it with you, Sir?

King. As with a Shippe
Now beat with stormes, now safe the stormes are vanisht;
And having you my Pylot I not onely
See shore but harbour. I to you will open
The booke of a blacke sinne deepe-printed in me.
Oh, father, my disease lyes in my soule.

Card. The old wound, Sir?

King. Yes, that; it festers inward:
For though I have a beauty to my bed
That even Creation envies at, as wanting
Stuffe to make such another, yet on her pillow
I lye by her but an Adulterer
And she as an Adulteresse. Shee's my Queene
And wife, yet but my strumpet, tho the Church
Set on the seale of Mariage: good Onaelia,
Neece to our Lord high Constable of Spaine,
Was precontracted mine.

Card. Yet when I stung Your Conscience with remembrance of the Act, Your eares were deafe to counsell.

King. I confesse it.

Card. Now to unty the knot with your new Queene Would shake the Crowne halfe from your head.

King. Even Troy (Tho she hath wept her eyes out) wud find teares To wayle my kingdomes ruines.

Card. What will you doe then?

King. She has that Contract written, seal'd by you And other Churchmen (witnesses untoo't). A kingdome should be given for that paper.

Card. I wud not, for what lyes beneath the Moone, Be made a wicked Engine to breake in pieces That holy Contract.

King. 'Tis my soules ayme to tye it Vpon a faster knot.

Card. I do not see How you can with safe conscience get it from her.

King. Oh, I know
I wrastle with a Lyonesse: to imprison her
And force her too't I dare not. Death! what King
Did ever say I dare not? I must have it.
A Bastard have I by her; and that Cocke
Will have (I feare) sharpe spurres, if he crow after
Him that trod for him. Something must be done
Both to the Henne and Chicken: haste you therefore
To sad Onaelia; tell her I'm resolv'd
To give my new Hawke bells and let her flye;
My Queene I'm weary of and her will marry.
To this our Text adde you what glosse you please;
The secret drifts of Kings are depthlesse Seas.

[Exeunt.

(SCENE 2.)

A Table set out cover'd with blacke: two waxen tapers: the Kings Picture at one end, a Crucifix at the other: Onaelia walking discontentedly weeping to the Crucifix, her Mayd with her: to them Cornego.

SONG.

Quest. Oh sorrow, sorrow, say, where dost thou dwell?

Answ. In the lowest roome of Hell.

Quest. Art thou borne of Humane race?

Answ. No, no, I have a furier[181] face.

Quest. Art thou in City, Towne or Court?

Answ. I to every place resort.

Quest. O why into the world is sorrow sent?

Answ. Men afflicted best repent.

Quest. What dost thou feed on?

Answ. Broken sleepe.

Quest. What tak'st thou pleasure in?

Answ. To weepe,
To sigh, to sob, to pine, to groane,
To wring my hands, to sit alone.

Quest. Oh when, oh when shall sorrow quiet have?

Answ. Never, never, never, never,
Never till she finds a grave.

Enter Cornego.

Corn. No lesson, Madam, but Lacrymae's?[182] If you had buried nine husbands, so much water as you might squeeze out of an Onyon had been teares enow to cast away upon fellowes that cannot thanke you. Come, be joviall.

Onae. Sorrow becomes me best.

Corn. A suit of laugh and lye downe[183] would weare better.

Onae. What should I doe to be merry, Cornego?

Corn. Be not sad.

Onae. But what's the best mirth in the world?

Corn. Marry, this: to see much, say little, doe little, get little, spend little and want nothing.

Onae. Oh, but there is a mirth beyond all these:
This picture has so vex'd me I'me half mad.
To spite it therefore I'le sing any song
Thy selfe shalt tune: say then, what mirth is best?

Corn. Why then, Madam, what I knocke out now is the very Maribone of mirth; and this it is.

Onae. Say on.

Corn. The best mirth for a Lawyer is to have fooles to his Clients; for Citizens to have Noblemen pay their debts; for Taylors to have store of Sattin brought in for them—how little soere their hours are—they'll be sure to have large yards: the best mirth for bawds is to have fresh handsome whores, and for whores to have rich guls come aboard their pinnaces, for then they are sure to build Gully-Asses.

Onae. These to such soules are mirth, but to mine none: Away!

[Exit Corn.

Enter Cardinall.

Car. Peace to you, Lady.

Onae. I will not sinne so much as hope for peace: And 'tis a mocke ill suits your gravity.

Card. I come to knit the nerves of your lost strength,
To build your ruines up, to set you free
From this your voluntary banishment,
And give new being to your murd'red fame.

Onae. What Aesculapius can doe this?

Card. The King—'tis from the King I come.

Onae. A name I hate: Oh I am deafe now to your Embassie.

Card. Heare what I speake.

Onae. Your language, breath'd from him, Is deaths sad doome upon a wretch condemn'd.

Car. Is it such poyson?

Onae. Yes; and, were you christall,
What the King fills you with, wud make you breake.
You should, my Lord, be like these robes you weare,
Pure as the Dye and like that reverend shape;
Nurse thoughts as full of honour, zeale and purity.
You should be the Court-Diall and direct
The King with constant motion; be ever beating
(Like to Clocke-Hammers) on his Iron heart,
To make it sound cleere and to feele remorse:
You should unlocke his soule, wake his dead conscience
Which, like a drowsie Centinell, gives leave
For sinnes vast army to beleaguer him.
His ruines will be ask'd for at your hands.

Car. I have rais'd up a scaffolding to save Both him and you from falling: doe but heare me.

Onae. Be dumbe for ever.

Car. Let your feares thus dye:
By all the sacred relliques of the Church
And by my holy orders, what I minister
Is even the spirit of health.

Onae. I'le drinke it downe into my soule at once.

Car. You shall.

Onae. But sweare.

Car. What conjurations can more bind mine oath?

Onae. But did you sweare in earnest?

Car. Come, you trifle.

Onae. No marvell, for my hopes have bin so drown'd I still despaire. Say on.

Car. The King repents.

Onae. Pray, that agen, my Lord.

Car. The King repents.

Onae. His wrongs to me?

Car. His wrongs to you: the sense Of sinne has pierc'd his soule.

Onae. Blest penitence!

Car. 'Has turn'd his eyes[184] into his leprous bosome, And like a King vowes execution On all his traiterous passions.

Onae. God-like Justice!

Car. Intends in person presently to begge Forgivenesse for his Acts of heaven and you.

Onae. Heaven pardon him; I shall.

Car. Will marry you.

Onae. Umph! marry me? will he turne Bigamist? When, when?

Car. Before the morrow Sunne hath rode
Halfe his dayes journey; will send home his Queene
As one that staines his bed and can produce
Nothing but bastard Issue to his Crowne.—
Why, how now? lost in wonder and amazement?

Onae. I am so stor'd with joy that I can now Strongly weare out more yeares of misery Than I have liv'd.

Enter King.

Car. You need not: here's the King.

King. Leave us. [Exit Car.

Onae. With pardon, Sir, I will prevent you And charge upon you first.

King. 'Tis granted; doe.—
But stay; what meane these Embleames of distresse?
My Picture so defac'd! oppos'd against
A holy Crosse! roome hung in blacke, and you
Drest like chiefe Mourner at a Funerall!

Onae. Looke backe upon your guilt (deare Sir), and then
The cause that now seemes strange explaines it selfe.
This and the Image of my living wrongs
Is still confronted by me to beget
Griefe like my shame, whose length may outlive Time:
This Crosse the object of my wounded soule,
To which I pray to keepe me from despaire,
That ever, as the sight of one throwes up
Mountaines of sorrowes on my accursed head,
Turning to that, Mercy may checke despaire
And bind my hands from wilfull violence.

King. But who hath plaid the Tyrant with me thus, And with such dangerous spite abus'd my picture?

Onae. The guilt of that layes claime, Sir, to your selfe;
For, being by you ransack'd of all my fame,
Rob'd of mine honour and deare chastity,
Made by you[r] act the shame of all my house,
The hate of good men and the scorne of bad,
The song of Broome-men and the murdering vulgar,
And left alone to beare up all these ills
By you begun, my brest was fill'd with fire
And wrap'd in just disdaine; and, like a woman,
On that dumb picture wreak'd I my passions.

King. And wish'd it had beene I.

Onae. Pardon me, Sir: My wrongs were great and my revenge swell'd high.

King. I will descend and cease to be a King,
To leave my judging part; freely confessing
Thou canst not give thy wrongs too ill a name.
And here, to make thy apprehension full
And seat thy reason in a sound beleefe,
I vow to morrow (e're the rising sunne
Begin his journey), with all Ceremonies
Due to the Church, to scale our Nuptials;
To prive[185] thy sonne, with full consent of State,
Spaines heire Apparant, borne in wedlock vowes.

Onae. And will you sweare to this?

King. By this I sweare.

Onae. Oh you have sworne false oathes upon that booke.

King. Why, then by this.

Onae. Take heed you print it deeply.
How for your concubine (Bride, I cannot say)?
She staines your bed with black Adultery;
And though her fame maskes in a fairer shape
Then mine to the worlds eye, yet (King) you know
Mine honour is less strumpetted than hers,
However butcher'd in opinion.

King. This way for her: the contract (which thou hast)
By best advice of all our Cardinals
To day shall be enlarg'd till it be made
Past all dissolving: then to our Counsell-Table
Shall she be call'd, that read aloud, she told
The Church commands her quicke returne for Florence,
With such a dower as Spaine received with her;
And that they will not hazard heavens dire curse
To yeeld to a match unlawfull, which shall taint
The issue of the King with Bastardy.
This done, in State Majestic come you forth
(Our new-crown'd Queene) in sight of all our Peeres.
—Are you resolv'd?

Onae. To doubt of this were Treason Because the King has sworne it.

King. And will keepe it. Deliver up the Contract then, that I May make this day end with my misery.

Onae. Here, as the dearest Jewell of my fame,
Lock'd I this parchment from all viewing eyes;
This your Indenture held alone the life
Of my suppos'd dead honour: yet (behold)
Into your hands I redeliver it.
Oh keepe it, Sir, as you should keepe that vow
To which (being sign'd by Heaven) even Angels bowe.

King. 'Tis in the Lions pawe, and who dares snatch it? Now to your Beads and Crucifix agen.

Onae. Defend me, heaven!

King. Pray there may come Embassadors from France: Their followers are good Customers.

Onae. Save me from madnesse!

King. 'Twill raise the price being the Kings Mistris.

Onae. You doe but counterfeit to mocke my joyes.

King. Away, bold strumpet.

Onae. Are there eyes in heaven to see this?

King. Call and try: here's a whore curse, To fall in that beleefe which her sunnes nurse. [Exit.

Enter Cornego.

Corn. How now? what quarter of the Moone has she cut out now? My Lord puts me into a wise office, to be a mad womans keeper! Why, Madam?

Onae. Ha! where is the King, thou slave?

Corn. Let go your hold or I'le fall upon you, as I am a man.

Onae. Thou treacherous caitiffe, where's the King?

Corn. Hee's gone, but no so farre gone as you are.

Onae. Cracke all in sunder, oh you battlements, And grind me into powder!

Corn. What powder? come, what powder? when did you ever see a woman grinded into powder? I am sure some of your sex powder men and pepper 'em too.

Onae. Is there a vengeance Yet lacking to my ruine? let it fall, Now let it fall upon me!

Corn. No, there has too much falne upon you already.

Onae. Thou villaine, leave thy hold! Ile follow him:
Like a rais'd ghost I'le haunt him, breake his sleepe,
Fright him as hee's embracing his new Leman
Till want of rest bids him runne mad and dye,
For making oathes Bawds to his perjury.

Corn. Pray be more reason'd: if he made any Bawdes he did ill, for there is enough of that fly-blowne flesh already.

Onae. I'me now left naked quite: All's gone, all, all!

Corn. No, Madam, not all; for you cannot be rid of me.—Here comes your Uncle.

Enter Medina.

Onae. Attir'd in robes of vengeance are you, Uncle?

Med. More horrors yet?

Onae. 'Twas never full till now: And in this torrent all my hopes lye drown'd.

Med. Instruct me in this cause.

Onae. The King! the Contract!
[Exit.

Corn. There's cud enough for you to chew upon.
[Exit.

Med. What's this? a riddle? how? the King, the Contract? The mischiefe I divine which, proving true, Shall kindle fires in Spaine to melt his Crowne Even from his head: here's the decree of fate,— A blacke deed must a blacke deed expiate. [Exit.

Actus Secundus.

SCAENA PRIMA[186].

Enter Baltazar, slighted by Dons.

Bal. Thou god of good Apparell, what strange fellowes
Are bound to do thee honour! Mercers books
Shew mens devotions to thee; heaven cannot hold
A Saint so stately. Do not my Dons know
Because I'me poor in clothes? stood my beaten Taylor
Playting my rich hose, my silke stocking-man
Drawing upon my Lordships Courtly calfe
Payres of Imbroydered things whose golden clockes
Strike deeper to the faithfull shop-keepers heart
Than into mine to pay him;—had my Barbour
Perfum'd my louzy thatch here and poak'd out
My Tuskes more stiffe than are a cats muschatoes—
These pide-winged Butterflyes had known me then.
Another flye-boat?[187] save thee, Illustrious Don.

Enter Don Roderigo.

Sir, is the king at leisure to speake Spanish
With a poore Souldier?

Ro. No.

Bal. No! sirrah you, no;
You Don with th'oaker face, I wish to ha thee
But on a Breach, stifling with smoke and fire,
And for thy 'No' but whiffing Gunpowder
Out of an Iron pipe, I woo'd but ask thee
If thou wood'st on, and if thou didst cry No
Thou shudst read Canon-Law; I'de make thee roare
And weare cut-beaten-sattyn: I woo'd pay thee
Though thou payst not thy mercer,—meere Spanish Jennets!

Enter Cockadillio.

Signeor, is the king at leisure?

Cock. To doe what?

Balt. To heare a Souldier speake.

Cock. I am no eare-picker To sound his hearing that way.

Bal. Are you of Court, Sir?

Cock. Yes, the kings Barber.

Bal. That's his eare picker.—Your name, I pray?

Cock. Don Cockadillio.
If, Souldier, thou hast suits to begge at Court
I shall descend so low as to betray
Thy paper to the hand Royall.

Bal. I begge, you whorson muscod! my petition Is written on my bosome in red wounds.

Cock. I am no Barbar-Surgeon.
[Exit.

Bal. You yellow-hammer! why, shaver!
That such poore things as these, onely made up
Of Taylors shreds and Merchants Silken rags
And Pothecary drugs (to lend their breaths
Sophisticated smells, when their ranke guts
Stink worse than cowards in the heat of battaile)
—Such whalebond-doublet-rascals that owe more
To Landresses and Sempstress for laced Linnen
Then all their race, from their great grand-father
To this their reigne, in clothes were ever worth;
These excrements of Silke-wormes! oh that such flyes
Doe buzze about the beames of Majesty!
Like earwigs tickling a kings yeelding eare
With that Court-Organ (Flattery), when a souldier
Must not come neere the Court gates twenty score,
But stand for want of clothes (tho he win Towns)
Amongst the Almesbasket-men! his best reward
Being scorn'd to be a fellow to the blacke gard[188].
Why shud a Souldier, being the worlds right arme,
Be cut thus by the left, a Courtier?
Is the world all Ruffe and Feather and nothing else?
Shall I never see a Taylor give his coat with a difference from a
gentleman?

Enter King, Alanzo, Carlo, Cockadillio.

King. My Baltazar! Let us make haste to meet thee: how art thou alter'd! Doe you not know him?

Alanz. Yes, Sir; the brave Souldier Employed against the Moores.

King. Halfe turn'd Moore!
I'le honour thee: reach him a chair—that Table:
And now Aeneas-like let thine own Trumpet
Sound forth thy battell with those slavish Moores.

Bal. My musicke is a Canon; a pitcht field my stage; Furies the Actors, blood and vengeance the scaene; death the story; a sword imbrued with blood the pen that writes; and the Poet a terrible buskind Tragical fellow with a wreath about his head of burning match instead of Bayes.

King. On to the Battaile!

Bal. 'Tis here, without bloud-shed: This our maine Battalia, this the Van, this the Vaw[189], these the wings: here we fight, there they flye; here they insconce, and here our sconces lay 17 Moours on the cold earth.

King. This satisfies mine eye, but now mine eare Must have his musicke too; describe the battaile.

Bal. The Battaile? Am I come from doing to talking? The hardest part for a Souldier to play is to prate well; our Tongues are Fifes, Drums, Petronels, Muskets, Culverin and Canon; these are our Roarers; the Clockes which wee goe by are our hands: thus we reckon tenne, our swords strike eleven, and when steele targets of proofe clatter one against another, then 'tis noone; that's the height and the heat of the day of battaile.

King. So.

Bal. To that heat we came, our Drums beat, Pikes were shaken and shiver'd, swords and Targets clash'd and clatter'd, Muskets ratled, Canons roar'd, men dyed groaning, brave laced Jerkings and Feathers looked pale, totter'd[190] rascals fought pell mell; here fell a wing, there heads were tost like foot-balls; legs and armes quarrell'd in the ayre and yet lay quietly on the earth; horses trampled upon heaps of carkasses, Troopes of Carbines tumbled wounded from their horses; we besiege Moores and famine us; Mutinies bluster and are calme. I vow'd not to doff mine Armour, tho my flesh were frozen too't and turn'd into Iron, nor to cut head nor beard till they yeelded; my hayres and oath are of one length, for (with Caesar) thus write I mine owne story, Veni, vidi, vici.

King. A pitch'd field quickly fought: our hand is thine
And 'cause thou shalt not murmur that thy blood
Was lavish'd forth for an ingrateful man,
Demand what we can give thee and 'tis thine.

(Onaelia beats at the doore.)

Onae. Let me come in! I'le kill that treacherous king, The murderer of mine honour: let me come in!

King. What womans voyce is that?

Omnes. Medina's Neece.

King. Bar out that fiend.

Onae. I'le teare him with my nayles! Let me come in, let me come in! helpe, helpe me!

King. Keepe her from following me: a gard!

Alanz. They are ready, Sir.

King. Let a quicke summons call our Lords together; This disease kills me.

Bal. Sir, I would be private with you.

King. Forbear us, but see the dores well guarded.

[Exeunt.

Bal. Will you, Sir, promise to give me freedome of speech?

King. Yes, I will; take it, speake any thing: 'tis pardoned.

Bal. You are a whoremaster: doe you send me to winne Townes for you abroad, and you lose a kingdome at home?

King. What kingdome?

Bal. The fayrest in the world, the kingdom of your Fame, your honour.

King. Wherein?

Bal. I'le be plaine with you: much mischiefe is done by the mouth of a Canon, but the fire begins at a little touch-hole: you heard what Nightingale sung to you even now?

King. Ha, ha, ha!

Bal. Angels err'd but once and fell; but you, Sir, spit in heaven's face every minute and laugh at it. Laugh still and follow your courses; doe; let your vices run like your kennels of hounds yelping after you, till they plucke downe the fayrest head in the heard, everlasting bliss.

King. Any more?

Bal. Take sinne as the English Snuffe Tobacco, and scornfully blow the smoke in the eyes of heaven; the vapour flyes up in clowds of bravery, but when 'tis out the coal is blacke (your conscience) and the pipe stinkes: a sea of Rose-water cannot sweeten your corrupted bosome.

King. Nay, spit thy venome.

Bal. 'Tis Aqua Coelestis, no venome; for, when you shall claspe up those wo books, never to be open'd againe; when by letting fall that Anchor, which can never more bee weighed up, your mortall Navigation ends: then there's no playing at spurne-point[191] with thunderbolts: a Vintner then for unconscionable reckoning or a Taylor for unreasonable Items shall not answer in halfe that feare you must.

King. No more.

Bal. I will follow Truth at the heels, tho her foot beat my gums in peeces.

King. The Barber that drawes out a Lion's tooth Curseth his Trade; and so shalt thou.

Bal. I care not.

King. Because you have beaten a few base-borne Moores
Me think'st thou to chastise? what's past I pardon,
Because I made the key to unlocke thy railing.
But if thou dar'st once more be so untun'd,
Ile send thee to the Gallies.—Who are without, there?
How now?

Enter Lords drawne.

Omnes. In danger, Sir?

King. Yes, yes, I am; but 'tis no point of weapon
Can rescue me. Goe presently and summon
All our chiefe Grandoes[192], Cardinals and Lords
Of Spaine to meet in counsell instantly.
We call'd you forth to execute a businesse
Of another straine,—but 'tis no matter now.
Thou dyest when next thou furrowest up our brow.

Bal. Go! dye! [Exit.

Enter Cardinal, Roderigo, Alba,[193] Dania, Valasco.

King. I find my Scepter shaken by enchantments Charactred in this parchment, which to unloose I'le practise only counter-charmes of fire And blow the spells of lightning into smoake: Fetch burning Tapers. [Exeunt.

Card. Give me Audience, Sir;
My apprehension opens me a way
To a close fatall mischiefe worse then this
You strive to murder: O this act of yours
Alone shall give your dangers life, which else
Can never grow to height; doe, Sir, but read
A booke here claspt up, which too late you open'd,
Now blotted by you with foul marginall notes.

King. Art fratricide?

Car. You are so, Sir.

King. If I be, Then here's my first mad fit.

Card. For Honours sake, For love you beare to conscience—

King. Reach the flames: Grandoes and Lords of Spaine be witnesse all What here I cancell; read, doe you know this bond?

Omnes. Our hands are too't.

Daen. 'Tis your confirmed contract
With my sad kinswoman: but wherefore, Sir,
Now is your rage on fire, in such a presence
To have it mourne in ashes?

King. Marquesse Daenia, Wee'll lend that tongue when this no more can speake.

Car. Deare Sir.

King. I am deafe,
Playd the full consort of the Spheares unto me
Vpon their lowdest strings.—Go; burne that witch
Who would dry up the tree of all Spaines Glories
But that I purge her sorceries by fire:
Troy lyes in Cinders; let your Oracles
Now laugh at me if I have beene deceiv'd
By their ridiculous riddles. Why, good father,
(Now you may freely chide) why was your zeale
Ready to burst in showres to quench our fury?

Card. Fury, indeed; you give it a proper name.
What have you done? clos'd up a festering wound
Which rots the heart: like a bad Surgeon,
Labouring to plucke out from your eye a moate,
You thrust the eye clean out.

King. Th'art mad ex tempore: What eye? which is that wound?

Car. That Scrowle, which now
You make the blacke Indenture of your lust,
Altho eat up in flames, is printed here,
In me, in him, in these, in all that saw it,
In all that ever did but heare 'twas yours:
That scold of the whole world (Fame) will anon
Raile with her thousand tongues at this poore Shift
Which gives your sinne a flame greater than that
You lent the paper; you to quench a wild fire
Cast oyle upon it.

King. Oyle to blood shall turne; I'le lose a limbe before the heart shall mourne.

[Exeunt.

Manent Daenia, Alba.

Daen. Hee's mad with rage or joy.

Alb. With both; with rage
To see his follies check'd, with fruitlesse joy
Because he hopes his Contract is cut off
Which Divine Justice more exemplifies.

Enter Medina.

Med. Where's the king?

Daen. Wrapt up in clouds of lightning.

Med. What has he done? saw you the Contract torne, As I did heare a minion sweare he threatened?

Alb. He tore it not but burnt it.

Med. Openly?

Daen. And heaven with us to witnesse.

Med. Well, that fire Will prove a catching flame to burne his kingdome.

Alb. Meet and consult.

Med. No more, trust not the ayre
With our projections, let us all revenge
Wrongs done to our most noble kinswoman:
Action is honours language, swords are tongues,
Which both speake best and best do right our wrongs.

[Exeunt.

(SCENE 2.)

Enter Onaelia one way, Cornego another.

Cor. Madam, there's a beare without to speake with you.

Onae. A Beare.

Cor. Its a Man all hairye and thats as bad.

Onae. Who ist?

Cor. Tis one Master Captaine Baltazar.

Onae. I doe not know that Baltazar.

Cor. He desires to see you; and if you love a water-spaniel before he be shorne, see him.

Onae. Let him come in.

Enter Baltazar.

Cor. Hist; a ducke, a ducke[194]; there she is, Sir.

Bal. A Souldiers good wish blesse you, Lady.

Onae. Good wishes are most welcome, Sir, to me; So many bad ones blast me.

Bal. Doe you not know me?

Onae. I scarce know my selfe.

Bal. I ha beene at Tennis, Madam, with the king. I gave him 15 and all his faults, which is much, and now I come to tosse a ball with you.

Onae. I am bandyed too much up and downe already.

Cor. Yes, she has beene strucke under line, master Souldier.

Bal. I conceit you: dare you trust your selfe along with me?

Onae. I have been laden with such weights of wrong That heavier cannot presse me: hence, Cornego.

Corn. Hence Cornego, stay Captaine! when man and woman are put together some egge of villany is sure to be sate upon. [Exit.

Bal. What would you say to him should kill this man that hath you so dishonoured?

Onae. Oh, I woo'd crowne him With thanks, praise, gold, and tender of my life.

Bal. Shall I bee that Germane Fencer[195] and beat all the knocking boyes before me? shall I kill him?

Onae. There's musick in the tongue that dares but speak it.

Bal. That fiddle then is in me; this arme can doo't by ponyard, poyson, or pistoll; but shall I doo't indeed?

Onae. One step to humane blisse is sweet revenge.

Bal. Stay; what made you love him?

Onae. His most goodly shape Married to royall virtues of his mind.

Bal. Yet now you would divorce all that goodnesse; and why? for a little letchery of revenge? it's a lye: the Burre that stickes in your throat is a throane: let him out of his messe of Kingdomes cut out but one, and lay Sicilia, Arragon, Naples or any else upon your trencher, and you'll prayse Bastard[196] for the sweetest wine in the world and call for another quart of it. 'Tis not because the man has left you but because you are not the woman you would be, that mads you: a shee-cuckold is an untameable monster.

Onae. Monster of men thou art: thou bloudy villaine,
Traytor to him who never injur'd thee,
Dost thou professe Armes and art bound in honour
To stand up like a brazen wall to guard
Thy King and Country, and wood'st thou ruine both?

Bal. You spurre me on too't.

Onae. True;
Worse am I then the horrid'st fiend in hell
To murder him whom once I lov'd too well:
For tho I could runne mad, and teare my haire,
And kill that godlesse man that turn'd me vile;
Though I am cheated by a perjurous Prince
Who has done wickednesse at which even heaven
Shakes when the Sunne beholds it; O yet I'de rather
Ten thousand poyson'd ponyards stab'd my brest
Then one should touch his: bloudy slave! I'le play
My selfe the Hangman and will Butcher thee
If thou but prick'st his finger.

Bal. Saist thou me so? give me thy goll[197], thou art a noble girle: I did play the Devils part and roare in a feigned voyce, but I am the honestest Devill that ever spet fire. I would not drinke that infernall draught of a kings blood, to goe reeling to damnation, for the weight of the world in Diamonds.

Onae. Art thou not counterfeit?

Bal. Now, by my skarres, I am not.

Onae. I'le call thee honest Souldier, then, and woo thee To be an often Visitant.

Bal. Your servant: Yet must I be a stone upon a hill, For tho I doe no good I'le not lye still.

[Exeunt.

Actus Tertius.

SCAENA PRIMA.

Enter Malateste and the Queene.

Mal. When first you came from Florence wud the world
Had with an universal dire eclipse
Bin overwhelm'd, no more to gaze on day,
That you to Spaine had never found the way,
Here to be lost for ever.

Queen. We from one climate
Drew suspiration: as thou then hast eyes
To read my wrongs, so be thy head an Engine
To raise up ponderous mischiefe to the height,
And then thy hands the Executioners.
A true Italian Spirit is a ball
Of Wild-fire, hurting most when it seemes spent;
Great ships on small rocks beating oft are rent;
And so let Spaine by us. But, Malateste,
Why from the Presence did you single me
Into this Gallery?

Mal. To shew you, Madam,
The picture of your selfe, but so defac'd
And mangled by proud Spanyards it woo'd whet
A sword to arme the poorest Florentine
In your just wrongs.

Queen. As how? let's see that picture.

Mal. Here 'tis then: Time is not scarce foure dayes old
Since I and certaine Dons (sharp-witted fellowes
And of good ranke) were with two Jesuits
(Grave profound Schollers) in deepe argument
Of various propositions; at the last
Question was mov'd touching your marriage
And the Kings precontract.

Queen. So; and what followed?

Mal. Whether it were a question mov'd by chance
Or spitefully of purpose (I being there
And your own Country-man) I cannot tell;
But when much tossing
Had bandyed both the King and you, as pleas'd
Those that tooke up the Rackets, in conclusion
The Father Jesuits (to whose subtile Musicke
Every eare there was tyed) stood with their lives
In stiffe defence of this opinion—
Oh, pardon me if I must speake their language.

Queen. Say on.

Mal. That the most Catholike King in marrying you Keepes you but as his whore.

Queen. Are we their Theames?

Mal. And that Medina's Neece, Onaelia,
Is his true wife: her bastard sonne, they said,
(The King being dead) should claim and weare the Crowne;
And whatsoever children you shall beare
To be but bastards in the highest degree,
As being begotten in Adultery.

Queen. We will not grieve at this, but with hot vengeance
Beat down this armed mischiefe. Malateste,
What whirlewinds can we raise to blow this storme
Backe in their faces who thus shoot at me?

Mal. If I were fit to be your Counsellor
Thus would I speake: feigne that you are with childe,—
The mother of the Maids, and some worne Ladies
Who oft have guilty beene to court great bellies,
May (tho it be not so) get you with childe
With swearing that 'tis true.

Queen. Say 'tis beleev'd, Or that it so doth prove.

Mal. The joy thereof,
Together with these earth-quakes which will shake
All Spaine if they their Prince doe dis-inherit,
So borne, of such a Queene, being onely daughter
To such a brave spirit as the Duke of Florence;—
All this buzz'd into the King, he cannot chuse
But charge that all the Bels in Spaine eccho up
This joy to heaven; that Bone-fires change the night
To a high Noone with beames of sparkling flames;
And that in Churches Organs (charm'd with prayers)
Speake lowd for your most safe delivery.

Queen. What fruits grow out of these?

Mal. These; you must sticke
(As here and there spring weeds in banks of flowers)
Spies amongst the people, who shall lay their eares
To every mouth and steale to you their whisperings.

Queen. So.

Mal. 'Tis a plummet to sound Spanish hearts
How deeply they are yours: besides a ghesse
Is hereby made of any faction
That shall combine against you; which the King seeing,
If then he will not rouze him like a Dragon
To guard his golden fleece and rid his Harlot
And her base bastard hence, either by death
Or in some traps of state insnare them both,—
Let his owne ruines crush him.

Queen. This goes to tryall;
Be thou my Magicke booke, which reading o're
Their counterspells wee'll breake; or if the King
Will not by strong hand fix me in his Throne
But that I must be held Spaines blazing Starre,
Be it an ominous charme to call up warre.

[Exeunt.

(SCENE 2.)

Enter Cornego, Onaelia.

Corn. Here's a parcell of mans flesh has beene hanging up and downe all this morning to speake with you.

Onae. Is't not some executioner?

Corn. I see nothing about him to hang in but's garters.

Onae. Sent from the king to warne me of my death: I prethe bid him welcome.

Cor. He says he is a Poet.

Onae. Then bid him better welcome: Belike he's come to write my Epitaph,— Some[198] scurvy thing, I warrant: welcome, Sir.

Enter Poet.

Poet. Madam[199], my love presents this book unto you.

Onae. To me? I am not worthy of a line,
Vnlesse at that line hang some hooke to choake me.
'To the most honoured Lady—Onaelia'
Fellow, thou lyest, I'me most dishonoured:
Thou shouldst have writ 'To the most wronged Lady':
The Title of this booke is not to me;
I teare it therefore as mine Honour's torne.

Cor. Your Verses are lam'd in some of their feet, Master Poet.

Onae. What does it treate of?

Poet. Of the sollemne Triumphs Set forth at Coronation of the Queene.

Onae. Hissing (the Poets whirle-wind) blast thy lines! Com'st thou to mocke my Tortures with her Triumphs?

Poet. 'Las, Madam!

Onae. When her funerals are past Crowne thou a Dedication to my joyes, And thou shalt sweare each line a golden verse. —Cornego, burne this Idoll.

Cor. Your booke shall come to light, Sir. [Exit.

Onae. I have read legends of disastrous Dames:
Will none set pen to paper for poore me?
Canst write a bitter Satyre? brainlesse people
Doe call 'em Libels: dar'st thou write a Libell?

Poet. I dare mix gall and poyson with my Inke.

Onae. Doe it then for me.

Poet. And every line must be A whip to draw blood.

Onae. Better.

Poet. And to dare
The stab from him it touches. He that writes
Such Libels (as you call 'em) must lance[200] wide
The sores of mens corruptions, and even search
To'th quicke for dead flesh or for rotten cores:
A Poets Inke can better cure some sores
Then Surgeons Balsum.

Onae. Vndertake that Cure And crowne thy verse with Bayes.

Poet. Madam, I'le doo't; But I must have the parties Character.

Onae. The king.

Poet. I doe not love to pluck the quils
With which I make pens, out of a Lions claw.
The King! shoo'd I be bitter 'gainst the king
I shall have scurvy ballads made of me
Sung to the Hanging Tune[201]. I dare not, Madam.

Onae. This basenesse follows your profession:
You are like common Beadles, apt to lash
Almost to death poore wretches not worth striking,
But fawne with slavish flattery on damn'd vices,
So great men act them: you clap hands at those,
Where the true Poet indeed doth scorne to guild
A gawdy Tombe with glory of his Verse
Which coffins stinking Carrion; no, his lines
Are free as his Invention; no base feare
Can shape his penne to Temporize even with Kings;
The blacker are their crimes he lowder sings.
Goe, goe, thou canst not write; 'tis but my calling
The Muses helpe, that I may be inspir'd.
Cannot a woman be a Poet, Sir?

Poet. Yes, Madam, best of all; for Poesie Is but a feigning; feigning is to lye, And women practise lying more than men.

Onae. Nay, but if I shoo'd write I woo'd tell truth: How might I reach a lofty straine?

Poet. Thus, Madam: Bookes, Musick, Wine, brave Company and good Cheere Make Poets to soare high and sing most cleare.

Onae. Are they borne Poets?

Poet. Yes.

Onae. Dye they?

Poet. Oh, never dye.

Onae. My misery is then a Poet sure, For time has given it an Eternity.— What sorts of Poets are there?

Poet. Two sorts, Lady; The great Poets and the small Poets.

Onae. Great and small! Which doe you call the great? the fat ones?

Poet. No, but such as have great heads, which, emptied forth,
Fill all the world with wonder at their lines—
Fellowes which swell big with the wind of praise:
The small ones are but shrimpes of Poesie.

Onae. Which in the kingdome now is the best Poet?

Poet. Emulation.

Onae. Which the next?

Poet. Necessity.

Onae. And which the worst?

Poet. Selfe-love.

Onae. Say I turne Poet, what should I get?

Poet. Opinion.

Onae. 'Las I have got too much of that already.
Opinion is my Evidence, Judge and Jury;
Mine owne guilt and opinion now condemne me.
I'le therefore be no Poet; no, nor make
Ten Muses of your nine, I sweare, for this;
Verses, tho freely borne, like slaves are sold;
I Crowne thy lines with Bayes, thy love with gold:
So fare thou well.

Poet. Our pen shall honour you. [Exit.

Enter Cornego.

Cor. The Poets booke, Madam, has got the Inflammation of the Livor, it dyed of a burning Feaver.

Onae. What shall I doe, Cornego? for this Poet
Has fill'd me with a fury: I could write
Strange Satyrs now against Adulterers
And Marriage-breakers.

Cor. I beleeve you, Madam.—But here comes your Vncle.

Enter Medina, Alanzo, Carlo, Alba, Sebastian, Daenia.

Med. Where's our Neece?
Turne your braines round and recollect your spirits,
And see your Noble friends and kinsmen ready
To pay revenge his due.

Onae. That word Revenge
Startles my sleepy Soule, now thoroughly wakend
By the fresh object of my haplesse childe
Whose wrongs reach beyond mine.

Seb. How doth my sweet mother?

Onae. How doth my prettiest boy?

Alanz. Wrongs, like greate whirlewinds,
Shake highest Battlements? few for heaven woo'd care
Shoo'd they be ever happy; they are halfe gods
Who both in good dayes and good fortune share.

Onae. I have no part in either.

Carl. You shall in both, Can Swords but cut the way.

Onae. I care not much, so you but gently strike him, And that my Child escape the light[e]ning.

Med. For that our Nerves are knit: is there not here
A promising face of manly princely vertues?
And shall so sweet a plant be rooted out
By him that ought to fix it fast i'the ground?
Sebastian,
What will you doe to him that hurts your mother?

Seb. The King my father shall kill him, I trow.

Daen. But, sweet Coozen, the King loves not your mother.

Seb. I'le make him love her when I am a King.

Med. La you, there's in him a Kings heart already.
As, therefore, we before together vow'd,
Lay all your warlike hands upon my Sword
And sweare.

Seb. Will you sweare to kill me, Vncle?

Med. Oh, not for twenty worlds.

Seb. Nay, then, draw and spare not, for I love fighting.

Med. Stand in the midst, sweet Cooz; we are your guard;
These Hammers shall for thee beat out a Crowne,
If hit all right. Sweare therefore, noble friends
By your high bloods, by true Nobility,
By what you owe Religion, owe to your Country,
Owe to the raising your posterity;
By love you beare to vertue and to Armes
(The shield of Innocence) sweare not to sheath
Your Swords, when once drawne forth—

Onae. Oh, not to kill him For twenty thousand worlds!

Med. Will you be quiet?— Your Swords, when once drawne forth, till they ha forc'd Yon godlesse, perjurous, perfidious man—

Onae. Pray raile not at him so.

Med. Art mad? y'are idle:—till they ha forc'd him
To cancell his late lawlesse bond he seal'd
At the high Altar to his Florentine Strumpet,
And in his bed lay this his troth-plight wife.

Onae. I, I, that's well; pray sweare.

Omnes. To this we sweare.

Seb. Vncle, I sweare too.

Med. Our forces let's unite; be bold and secret, And Lion-like with open eyes let's sleepe: Streames smooth and slowly running are most deep. [Exeunt.

(SCENE 3.)

Enter King; Queen, Malateste, Valesco, Lopez.

King. The Presence doore be guarded; let none enter
On forfeit of your lives without our knowledge.
Oh, you are false physitians all unto me,
You bring me poyson but no antidotes.

Queen. Your selfe that poyson brewes.

King. Prethe, no more.

Queen. I will, I must speake more.

King. Thunder aloud.

Queen. My child, yet newly quickened in my wombe, Is blasted with the fires of Bastardy.

King. Who? who dares once but thinke so in his dreame?

Mal. Medina's faction preached it openly.

King. Be curst he and his Faction: oh, how I labour
For these preventions! but, so crosse is Fate,
My ills are ne're hid from me but their Cures.
What's to be done?

Queen. That which being left undone, Your life lyes at the stake: let 'em be breathlesse, Both brat and mother.

King. Ha!

Mal. She playes true Musicke, Sir:
The mischiefes you are drench'd in are so full
You need not feare to add to 'em; since now
No way is left to guard thy rest secure
But by a meanes like this.

Lop. All Spaine rings forth Medina's name and his Confederates.

Rod. All his Allyes and friends rush into troopes Like raging Torrents.

Val. And lowd Trumpet forth Your perjuries; seducing the wild people And with rebellious faces threatning all.

King. I shall be massacred in this their spleene E're I have time to guard my selfe; I feele The fire already falling: where's our guard?

Mal. Planted at Garden gate, with a strict charge That none shall enter but by your command.

King. Let 'em be doubled: I am full of thoughts,
A thousand wheeles tosse my incertaine feares;
There is a storme in my hot boyling braines
Which rises without wind; a horrid one.
What clamor's that?

Queen. Some treason: guard the King!

Enter Baltazar drawne; one of the Guard fals.

Bal. Not in?

Mal. One of your guard's slaine: keepe off the murderer!

Bal. I am none, Sir.

Val. There's a man drop'd down by thee.

King. Thou desperate fellow, thus presse in upon us!
Is murder all the story we shall read?
What King can stand when thus his subjects bleed!
What hast thou done?

Bal. No hurt.

King. Plaid even the Wolfe And from a fold committed to my charge Stolne and devour'd one of the flocke.

Bal. Y'ave sheepe enow for all that, Sir; I have kill'd none tho; or, if I have, mine owne blood shed in your quarrels may begge my pardon; my businesse was in haste to you.

King. I woo'd not have thy sinne scoar'd on my head
For all the Indian Treasury. I prethee tell me,
Suppose thou hast our pardon, O, can that cure
Thy wounded conscience? can there my pardon helpe thee?
Yet, having deserv'd well both of Spaine and us,
We will not pay thy worth with losse of life,
But banish thee for ever.

Bal. For a Groomes death?

King. No more; we banish thee our Court and kingdome:
A King that fosters men so dipt in blood
May be call'd mercifull but never good:
Begone upon thy life.

Bal. Well: farewell. [Exit.

Val. The fellow is not dead but wounded, Sir.

Queen. After him, Malateste; in our lodging
Stay that rough fellow; hee's the man shall doo't:
Haste, or my hopes are lost. [Exit Mal.
Why are you sad, Sir?

King. For thee, Paullina, swell my troubled thoughts, Like billowes beaten by too (two?) warring winds.

Queen. Be you but rul'd by me, I'le make a calme Smooth as the brest of heaven.

King. Instruct me how.

Queen. You (as your fortunes tye you) are inclin'd To have the blow given.

King. Where's the Instrument?

Queen. 'Tis found in Baltazar.

King. Hee's banished.

Queen. True, But staid by me for this.

King. His spirit is hot And rugged, but so honest that his soule Will ne're turn devill to do it.

Queen. Put it to tryall:
Retire a little: hither I'le send for him,
Offer repeale and favours if he doe it;
But if deny, you have no finger in't,
And then his doome of banishment stands good.

King. Be happy in thy workings; I obey. [Exit.

Queen. Stay, Lopez.

Lop. Madam.

Queen. Step to our Lodging, Lopez, And instantly bid Malateste bring The banish'd Baltazar to us.

Lop. I shall. [Exit.

Queen. Thrive my blacke plots; the mischiefes I have set Must not so dye; Ills must new Ills beget.

Enter Malateste and Baltazar.

Bal. Now! what hot poyson'd Custard must I put my Spoone into now?

Queen. None, for mine honour now is thy protection.

Mal. Which, Noble Souldier, she will pawn for thee But never forfeit.

Bal. 'Tis a faire gage; keepe it.

Queen. Oh, Baltazar, I am thy friend, and mark'd thee
When the King sentenc'd thee to banishment:
Fire sparkled from thine eyes of rage and griefe;
Rage to be doom'd so for a Groome so base,
And griefe to lose thy country. Thou hast kill'd none:
The Milke-sop is but wounded, thou art not banish'd.

Bal. If I were I lose nothing; I can make any Countrey mine. I have a private Coat for Italian Steeletto's, I can be treacherous with the Wallowne, drunke with the Dutch, a Chimney-sweeper with the Irish, a Gentleman with the Welsh[202] and turne arrant theefe with the English: what then is my Country to me?

Queen. The King, who (rap'd with fury) banish'd thee, Shall give thee favours, yeeld but to destroy What him distempers.

Bal. So; and what's the dish I must dresse?

Queen. Onely the cutting off a paire of lives.

Bal. I love no Red-wine healths.

Mal. The King commands it; you are but Executioner.

Bal. The Hang-man? An office that will hold as long as hempe lasts: why doe not you begge the office, Sir?

Queen. Thy victories in field shall never crowne thee As this one Act shall.

Bal. Prove but that, 'tis done.

Queen. Follow him close; hee's yeelding.

Mal. Thou shalt be call'd thy Countries Patriot
For quenching out a fire now newly kindling
In factious bosomes; and shalt thereby save
More Noble Spanyards lives than thou slew'st Moores.

Queen. Art thou not yet converted?

Bal. No point.

Queen. Read me then: Medina's Neece, by a contract from the King, Layes clayme to all that's mine, my Crowne, my bed; A sonne she has by him must fill the Throne If her great faction can but worke that wonder. Now heare me—

Bal. I doe with gaping eares.

Queen. I swell with hopefull issue to the King.

Bal. A brave Don call you mother.

Mal. Of this danger The feare afflicts the King.

Bal. Cannot much blame him.

Queen. If therefore by the riddance of this Dame—

Bal. Riddance? oh! the meaning on't is murder.

Mal. Stab her or so, that's all.

Queen. That Spaine be free from frights, the King from feares,
And I, now held his Infamy, be called Queene;
The Treasure of the kingdome shall lye open
To pay thy Noble darings.

Bal. Come, Ile doo't, provided I heare Jove call to me tho he rores; I must have the King's hand to this warrant, else I dare not serve it upon my Conscience.

Queen. Be firme, then; behold the King is come.

Enter King.

Bal. Acquaint him.

Queen. I found the metal hard, but with oft beating Hees now so softened he shall take impression From any seale you give him.

King. Baltazar,
Come hither, listen; whatsoe're our Queene
Has importun'd thee to, touching Onaelia
(Neece to the Constable) and her young sonne,
My voyce shall second it and signe her promise.

Bal. Their riddance?

King. That.

Bal. What way? by poyson?

King. So.

Bal. Starving, or strangling, stabbing, smothering?

Queen. Good.

King. Any way, so 'tis done.

Bal. But I will have, Sir, This under your owne hand; that you desire it, You plot it, set me on too't.

King. Penne, Inke and paper.

Bal. And then as large a pardon as law and wit Can engrosse for me.

King. Thou shalt ha my pardon.

Bal. A word more, Sir; pray will you tell me one thing?

King. Yes, any thing, deare Baltazar.

Bal. Suppose I have your strongest pardon, can that cure my wounded
Conscience? can there your pardon help me? You not onely knocke the
Ewe a'th head, but cut the Innocent Lambes throat too: yet you are no
Butcher!

Queen. Is this thy promis'd yeelding to an Act So wholesome for thy Country?

King. Chide him not.

Bal. I woo'd not have this sinne scor'd on my head For all the Indaean Treasury.

King. That song no more: Doe this and I will make thee a great man.

Bal. Is there no farther trick in't, but my blow, your purse, and my pardon?

Mal. No nets upon my life to entrap thee.

Bal. Then trust me, these knuckles worke it.

King. Farewell, be confident and sudden.

Bal. Yes;
Subjects may stumble when Kings walk astray:
Thine Acts shall be a new Apocrypha.

[Exeunt.

Actus Quartus.

SCAENA PRIMA.

Enter Medina, Alba and Daenia, met by Baltazar with a Ponyard and a Pistoll.

Bal. You meet a Hydra; see, if one head failes; Another with a sulphurous beake stands yawning.

Med. What hath rais'd up this Devill?

Bal. A great mans vices, that can raise all hell.
What woo'd you call that man, who under-saile
In a most goodly ship wherein he ventures
His life, fortunes and honours, yet in a fury
Should hew the Mast downe, cast Sayles over-boord,
Fire all the Tacklings, and to crowne this madnesse
Shoo'd blow up all the Deckes, burne th'oaken ribbes
And in that Combat 'twixt two Elements
Leape desperately and drowne himselfe i'th Seas,—
What were so brave a fellow?

Omnes. A brave blacke villaine.

Bal. That's I; all that brave blacke villaine dwels in me,
If I be that blacke villaine; but I am not:
A Nobler Character prints out my brow,
Which you may thus read: I was banish'd Spaine
For emptying a Court-Hogshead, but repeal'd
So I woo'd (e're my reeking Iron was cold)
Promise to give it a deepe crimson dye
In—none heare?—stay—no, none heare.

Med. Whom then?

Bal. Basely to stab a woman, your wrong'd Neece, And her most innocent sonne Sebastian.

Alb. The Boare now foames with whetting.

Daen. What has blunted Thy weapons point at these?

Bal. My honesty,
A signe at which few dwell, pure honesty.
I am a vassaile to Medina's house;
He taught me first the A, B, C of warre[203]
E're I was Truncheon-high I had the stile
Of beardlesse Captaine, writing then but boy:
And shall I now turne slave to him that fed me
With Cannon-bullets, and taught me, Estridge[204]-like,
To digest Iron and Steele? no: yet I yeelded
With willow-bendings to commanding breaths.

Med. Of whom?

Bal. Of King and Queene: with supple Hams
And an ill-boading looke I vow'd to doo't;
Yet, lest some choake-peare[205] of State-policy
Shoo'd stop my throat and spoyle my drinking-pipe,
See (like his cloake) I hung at the Kings elbow
Till I had got his hand to signe my life.

Daen. Shall we see this and sleepe?

Alb. No, whilst these wake.

Med. 'Tis the Kings hand.

Bal. Thinke you me a quoyner?

Med. No, no, thou art thy selfe still, Noble Baltazar; I ever knew thee honest, and the marke Stands still upon thy forehead.

Bal. Else flea the skin off.

Med. I ever knew thee valiant and to scorne
All acts of basenesse: I have seene this man
Write in the field such stories with his sword
That our best chiefetaines swore there was in him
As 'twere a new Philosophy of fighting,
His deeds were so Puntillious. In one battell,
When death so nearely mist my ribs, he strucke
Three horses stone-dead under me: this man
Three times that day (even through the jawes of danger)
Redeem'd me up, and (I shall print it ever)
Stood o're my body with Colossus thighes
Whilst all the Thunder-bolts which warre could throw
Fell on his head; and, Baltazar, thou canst not
Be now but honest still and valiant still
Not to kill boyes and women.

Bal. My byter here eats no such meat.

Med. Goe, fetch the mark'd-out Lambe for slaughter hither;
Good fellow souldier, ayd him—and stay—marke,
Give this false fire to the beleeving King,
That the child's sent to heaven but that the mother
Stands rock'd so strong with friends ten thousand billowes
Cannot once shake her.

Bal. This I'le doe.

Med. Away;
Yet one word more; your Counsel, Noble friends;
Harke, Baltazar, because nor eyes nor tongues
Shall by loud Larums that the poore boy lives
Question thy false report, the child shall closely,
Mantled in darknesse, forthwith be conveyed
To the Monastery of Saint Paul.

Omnes. Good.

Med. Dispatch then; be quicke.

Bal. As Lightning. [Exit.

Alb. This fellow is some Angell drop'd from heaven To preserve Innocence.

Med. He is a wheele
Of swift and turbulent motion; I have trusted him,
Yet will not hang on him to many plummets
Lest with a headlong Cyre (Gyre?) he ruines all.
In these State-consternations, when a kingdome
Stands tottering at the Center, out of suspition
Safety growes often. Let us suspect this fellow;
And that, albeit he shew us the Kings hand,
It may be but a tricke.

Daen. Your Lordship hits
A poyson'd nayle i'th head: this waxen fellow
(By the Kings hand so bribing him with gold)
Is set on skrews, perhaps is made his Creature
To turne round every way.

Med. Out of that feare Will I beget truth; for my selfe in person Will sound the Kings brest.

Carl. How! your selfe in person.

Alb. That's half the prize he gapes for.

Med. I'le venture it,
And come off well, I warrant you, and rip up
His very entrailes, cut in two his heart
And search each corner in't; yet shall not he
Know who it is cuts up th'Anatomy.

Daen. 'Tis an exploit worth wonder.

Carl. Put the worst; Say some Infernall voyce shoo'd rore from hell The Infant's cloystering up.

Alb. 'Tis not our danger Nor the imprison'd Prince's, for what Theefe Dares by base sacrilege rob the Church of him?

Carl. At worst none can be lost but this slight fellow.

Med. All build on this as on a stable Cube:
If we our footing keepe we fetch him forth
And Crowne him King; if up we fly i'th ayre
We for his soules health a broad way prepare.

Daen. They come.

Enter Baltazar and Sebastian.

Med. Thou knowest where To bestow him, Baltazar.

Bal. Come Noble[206] Boy.

Alb. Hide him from being discovered.

Bal. Discover'd? woo'd there stood a troope of Moores
Thrusting the pawes of hungry Lions forth
To seize this prey, and this but in my hand;
I should doe something.

Seb. Must I goe with this blacke fellow, Vncle?

Med. Yes, pretty Coz; hence with him, Baltazar.

Bal. Sweet child, within few minutes I'le change thy fate And take thee hence, but set thee at heavens gate. [Exeunt Bal. and Seb.

Med. Some keepe aloof and watch this Souldier.

Carl. I'le doo't.

Daen. What's to be done now?

Med. First to plant strong guard About the mother, then into some snare To hunt this spotted Panther and there kill him.

Daen. What snares have we can hold him?

Med. Be that care mine: Dangers (like Starres) in darke attempts best shine.

[Exeunt.

(SCENE 2.)

Enter Cornego, Baltazar.

Cor. The Lady Onaelia dresseth the stead[207] of her commendations in the most Courtly Attire that words can be cloth'd with, from her selfe to you by me.

Bal. So, Sir; and what disease troubles her now?

Cor. The King's Evill; and here she hath sent something to you wrap'd up in a white sheet; you need not feare to open it, 'tis no coarse.

Bal. What's here? a letter minc'd into five morsels? What was she doing when thou camest from her?

Cor. At the pricke-song[208].

Bal. So methinks, for here's nothing but sol-Re-fa-mi. What Crochet fils her head now, canst tell?

Cor. No Crochets, 'tis onely the Cliffe has made her mad.

Bal. What instrument playd she upon?

Cor. A wind instrument, she did nothing but sigh.

Bal. Sol, Ra, me, Fa, Mi.

Cor. My wit has alwayes had a singing head; I have found out her Note, Captaine.

Bal. The tune? come.

Cor. Sol, my soule; re, is all rent and torne like a raggamuffin; me, mend it, good Captaine; fa, fa,—whats fa, Captaine?

Bal. Fa? why, farewell and be hang'd.

Cor. Mi, Captaine, with all my heart. Have I tickled my Ladies Fiddle well?

Bal. Oh, but your sticke wants Rozen to make the string sound clearely. No, this double Virginall being cunningly touch'd, another manner of Jacke[209] leaps up then is now in mine eye. Sol, Re, me, fa, mi—I have it now; Solus Rex me facit miseram. Alas, poore Lady! tell her no Pothecary in Spaine has any of that Assa Fetida she writes for.

Cor. Assa Fetida? what's that?

Bal. A thing to be taken in a glister-pipe?

Cor. Why, what ayles my Lady?

Bal. What ayles she? why, when she cryes out Solus Rex me facit miseram, she sayes in the Hypocronicall language that she is so miserably tormented with the wind-Chollicke that it rackes her very soule.

Cor. I said somewhat cut her soule in pieces.

Bal. But goe to her and say the oven is heating.

Cor. And what shall be bak'd in't?

Bal. Carpe pies, and besides tell her the hole in her Coat shall be mended; and tell her if the Dyall of good dayes goe true, why then bounce Buckrum.

Cor. The Divell lyes sicke of the Mulligrubs.

Bal. Or the Cony is dub'd, and three sheepskins—

Cor. With the wrong side outward.

Bal. Shall make the Fox a Night-cap.

Cor. So the Goose talkes French to the Buzzard.

Bal. But, Sir, if evill dayes justle our prognostication to the wall, then say there's a fire in the whore-masters Cod-peece.

Cor. And a poyson'd Bagge-pudding in Tom Thumbes belly.

Bal. The first cut be thine: farewell!

Cor. Is this all?

Bal. Woo't not trust an Almanacke?

Cor. Nor a Coranta[210] neither, tho it were seal'd with Butter; and yet I know where they both lye passing well.

Enter Lopez.

Lop. The King sends round about the Court to seek you.

Bal. Away, Otterhound.

Cor. Dancing Beare, I'me gone. [Exit.

Enter King attended.

King. A private roome.— [Exeunt Omnes. Is't done? hast drawne thy two edg'd sword out yet?

Bal. No, I was striking at the two Iron Barres that hinder your passage; and see, Sir. [Drawes.

King. What meanst thou?

Bal. The edge abated? feele.

King. No, no, I see it.

Bal. As blunt as Ignorance.

King. How? put up—So—how?

Bal. I saw by chance, hanging in Cardinall Alvarez Gallery, a picture of hell.

King. So; what of that?

Bal. There lay upon burnt straw ten thousand brave fellowes, all starke naked, some leaning upon Crownes, some on Miters, some on bags of gold; Glory in another Corner lay like a feather beaten in the raine; Beauty was turn'd into a watching Candle that went out stinking; Ambition went upon a huge high paire of stilts but horribly rotten; some in another nooke were killing Kings, and some having their elbowes shov'd forward by Kings to murther others: I was (methought) halfe in hell my selfe whilst I stood to view this peece.

King. Was this all?

Bal. Was't not enough to see that? a man is more healthfull that eats dirty puddings than he that feeds on a corrupted Conscience.

King. Conscience! what's that? a Conjuring booke ne're open'd
Without the readers danger: 'tis indeed
A scare-crow set i'th world to fright weake fooles.
Hast thou seene fields pav'd o're with carkasses
Now to be tender-footed, not to tread
On a boyes mangled quarters and a womans?

Bal. Nay, Sir, I have search'd the records of the Low-Countries and finde that by your pardon I need not care a pinne for Goblins; and therefore I will doo't, Sir: I did but recoyle because I was double charg'd.

King. No more; here comes a Satyre with sharpe hornes.

Enter Cardinall, and Medina like a French Doctor.

Car. Sir, here's a Frenchman charg'd with some strange businesse Which to your close eare onely hee'll deliver, Or else to none.

King. A Frenchman?

Med. We, Mounsire.

King. Cannot he speake the Spanish?

Med. Si Signior, vr Poco:—Monsir, Acoutez in de Corner; me come for offer to your Bon gace mi trez humble service. By gar no John fidleco shall put into your neare braver Melody dan dis vn petite pipe shall play upon to your great bon Grace.

King. What is the tune you'll strike up? touch the string.

Med. Dis; me ha run up and downe mane Countrie and learne many fine ting and mush knavery; now more and all dis me know you ha jumbla de fine vench and fill her belly wid a Garsoone: her name is le Madame—

King. Onaelia.

Med. She by gar: Now, Monsire, dis Madam send for me to helpe her Malady, being very naught of her corpes (her body). Me know you no point love a dis vensh; but, royall Monsire, donne Moy ten towsand French Crownes, she shall kicke up her taile, by gar, and beshide lye dead as dog in the shannell.

King. Speake low.

Med. As de bagge-pipe when the winde is puff, Garbeigh.

King. Thou nam'st ten thousand Crownes; I'le treble them, Rid me but of this leprosie: thy name?

Med. Monsire Doctor Devile.

King. Shall I a second wheele adde to this mischiefe To set it faster going? if one breake, Th'other may keepe his motion.

Med. Esselent fort boone.

King. Baltazar,
To give thy Sword an edge againe, this Frenchman
Shall whet thee on, that if thy pistoll faile,
Or ponyard, this can send the poyson home.

Bal. Brother Cain, wee'll shake hands.

Med. In de bowle of de bloody busher: tis very fine wholesome.

King. And more to arme your resolution,
I'le tune this Churchman so that he shall chime
In sounds harmonious. Merit to that man
Whose hand has but a finger in that act.

Bal. That musicke were worth hearing.

King. Holy Father,
You must give pardon to me in unlocking
A Cave stuft full with Serpents which my State
Threaten to poyson; and it lyes in you
To breake their bed with thunder of your voyce.

Car. How, princely sonne?

King. Suppose an universall
Hot Pestilence beat her mortiferous wings
Ore all my Kingdome, am I not bound in soule
To empty all our Achademes of Doctors
And Aesculapian Spirits to charme this plague?

Car. You are.

King. Or had the Canon made a breach
Into our rich Escuriall, down to beat it
About our eares, shoo'd I to stop this breach
Spare even our richest Ornaments, nay our Crowne,
Could it keepe bullets off?

Car. No, Sir, you should not.

King. This Linstocke[211] gives you fire: shall then that strumpet
And bastard breathe quicke vengeance in my face,
Making my kingdome reele, my subjects stagger
In their obedience, and yet live?

Car. How? live! Shed not their bloods to gaine a kingdome greater Then ten times this.

Med. Pishe, not mattera how Red-cap and his wit run.

King. As I am Catholike King I'le have their hearts Panting in these two hands.

Car. Dare you turne Hang-man?
Is this Religion Catholicke, to kill,
What even bruit beasts abhorre to doe, your owne!
To cut in sunder wedlockes sacred knot
Tyed by heavens fingers! to make Spaine a Bonfire
To quench which must a second Deluge raine
In showres of blood, no water! If you doe this
There is an Arme Armipotent that can fling you
Into a base grave, and your Pallaces
With Lightning strike and of their Ruines make
A Tombe for you, unpitied and abhorr'd.
Beare witnesse, all you Lamps Coelestiall,
I wash my hands of this. (Kneeling.)

King. Rise, my goon Angell, Whose holy tunes beat from me that evill spirit Which jogs mine elbow.—Hence, thou dog of hell!

Med. Baw wawghe.

King. Barke out no more, thou Mastiffe; get you all gone, And let my soule sleepe.—There's gold; peace, see it done. [Exit.

Manent Medina, Baltazar, Cardinall.

Bal. Sirra, you Salsa-Perilla Rascall, Toads-guts, you whorson pockey French Spawne of a bursten-bellyed Spyder, doe you heare, Monsire?

Med. Why doe you barke and snap at my Narcissus as if I were de Frenshe doag?

Bal. You Curre of Cerberus litter, (strikes him), you'll poyson the honest Lady? doe but once toot[212] into her chamber-pot and I'll make thee looke worse then a witch does upon a close-stoole.

Car. You shall not dare to touch him, stood he here Single before thee.

Bal. I'le cut the Rat into Anchovies.

Car. I'le make thee kisse his hand, imbrace him, love him, And call him— (Medina discovers)

Bal. The perfection of all Spanyards; Mars in little; the best booke of the art of Warre printed in these Times: as a French Doctor I woo'd have given you pellets for pills, but as my noblest Lord rip my heart out in your service.

Med. Thou art the truest Clocke
That e're to time paidst tribute, honest Souldier.
I lost mine owne shape and put on a French
Onely to try thy truth and the kings falshood,
Both which I find. Now this great Spanish volume
Is open'd to me, I read him o're and o're,
Oh what blacke Characters are printed in him!

Car. Nothing but certaine ruine threat your Neece,
Without prevention; well this plot was laid
In such disguise to sound him; they that know
How to meet dangers are the lesse afraid:
Yet let me counsell you not to text downe
These wrongs in red lines.

Med. No, I will not, father:
Now that I have Anatomiz'd his thoughts
I'le read a lecture on 'em that shall save
Many mens lives, and to the kingdome Minister
Most wholesome Surgery: here's our Aphorisme,[213]—
These letters from us in our Neeces name,
You know, treat of a marriage.

Car. There's the strong Anchor To stay all in this tempest.

Med. Holy Sir, With these worke you the King and so prevaile That all these mischiefes Hull with Flagging saile.

Car. My best in this I'le doe.

Med. Souldier, thy brest I must locke better things in.

Bal. Tis your chest with 3 good keyes to keep it from opening, an honest hart, a daring hand and a pocket which scornes money.

[Exeunt.

Actus Quintus.

SCAENA PRIMA.

Enter King, Cardinall with letters, [Valasco and Lopez.]

King. Commend us to Medina, say his letters
Right pleasing are, and that (except himselfe)
Nothing could be more welcome: counsell him
(To blot the opinion out of factious numbers)
Onely to have his ordinary traine
Waiting upon him; for, to quit all feares
Vpon his side of us, our very Court
Shall even but dimly shine with some few Dons,
Freely to prove our longings great to peace.

Car. The Constable expects some pawne from you That in this Fairy circle shall rise up No Fury to confound his Neece nor him.

King. A King's word is engag'd.

Car. It shall be taken. [Exit.

King. Valasco, call the Captaine of our Guard, Bid him attend us instantly.

Val. I shall. [Exit.

King. Lopez, come hither: see
Letters from Duke Medina, both in the name
Of him and all his Faction, offering peace,
And our old love (his Neece) Onaelia
In Marriage with her free and faire consent
To Cockadillio, a Don of Spaine.

Lop. Will you refuse this?

King. My Crowne as soone: they feele their sinowy plots
Belike to shrinke i'th joynts, and fearing Ruine
Have found this Cement out to piece up all,
Which more endangers all.

Lop. How, Sir! endangers?

King. Lyons may hunted be into the snare,
But if they once breake loose woe be to him
That first seiz'd on 'em. A poore prisoner scornes
To kisse his Jaylor; and shall a King be choak'd
With sweete-meats by false Traytors! no, I will fawne
On them as they stroake me, till they are fast
But in this paw, and then—

Lop. A brave revenge.— The Captaine of your Guard.

Enter Captaine.

King. Vpon thy life
Double our Guard this day, let every man
Beare a charg'd Pistoll hid; and at a watch-word
Given by a Musket, when our selfe sees Time,
Rush in; and if Medina's Faction wrastle
Against your forces, kill; but if yeeld, save.
Be secret.

Alanz. I am charm'd, Sir.
[Exit.

King. Watch, Valasco;
If any weare a Crosse, Feather or Glove
Or such prodigious signes of a knit Faction,
Table their names up; at our Court-gate plant
Good strength to barre them out if once they swarme:
Doe this upon thy life.

Val. Not death shall fright me.

[Exeunt Valasco and Lopez.

Enter Baltazar.

Bal. 'Tis done, Sir.

King. Death! what's done?

Bal. Young Cub's flayd, But the shee-fox shifting her hole is fled; The little Iackanapes the boy's braind.

King. Sebastian?

Bal. He shall ne're speake more Spanish.

King. Thou teachest me to curse thee.

Bal. For a bargaine you set your hand to?

King. Halfe my Crowne I'de lose were it undone.

Bal. But half a Crowne? that's nothing: His braines sticke in my conscience more than yours.

King. How lost I the French Doctor?

Bal. As French-men lose their haire: here was too hot staying for him.

King. Get thou, too, from my sight: the Queen wu'd see thee.

Bal. Your gold, Sir.

King. Goe with Judas and repent.

Bal. So men hate whores after lusts heat is spent; I'me gone, Sir.

King. Tell me true,—is he dead?

Bal. Dead.

King. No matter; 'tis but morning of revenge; The Sun-set shall be red and Tragicall. [Exit.

Bal. Sinne is a Raven croaking[214] her owne fall. [Exit.

(SCENE 2.)

Enter Medina, Daenia, Alba, Carlo and the Faction, with Rosemary in their hats.

Med. Keepe lock'd the doore and let none enter to us But who shares in our fortunes.

Daen. Locke the dores.

Alb. What entertainment did the King bestow Vpon your letters and the Cardinals?

Med. With a devouring eye he read 'em o're
Swallowing our offers into his empty bosome
As gladly as the parched earth drinks healths
Out of the cup of heaven.

Carl. Little suspecting What dangers closely lye enambushed.

Daen. Let not us trust to that; there's in his brest
Both Fox and Lion, and both those beasts can bite:
We must not now behold the narrowest loope-hole
But presently suspect a winged bullet
Flyes whizzing by our eares.

Med. For when I let
The plummet fall to sound his very soule
In his close-chamber, being French-Doctor-like,
He to the Cardinals eare sung sorcerous notes;
The burthen of his song to mine was death,
Onaelia's murder and Sebastians.
And thinke you his voyce alters now? 'Tis strange
To see how brave this Tyrant shewes in Court,
Throan'd like a god: great men are petty starres
Where his rayes shine; wonder fills up all eyes
By sight of him: let him but once checke sinne,
About him round all cry "oh excellent king!
Oh Saint-like man!" but let this King retire
Into his Closet to put off his robes,
He like a Player leaves his parte off, too:
Open his brest and with a Sunne-beame search it,
There's no such man; this King of gilded clay
Within is uglinesse, lust, treachery,
And a base soule tho reard Colossus-high.

(Baltazar beats to come in.)

Daen. None till he speakes and that we know his voyce: Who are you?

Within Bal. An honest house-keeper in Rosemary-lane, too, If you dwell in the same parish.

Med. Oh 'tis our honest Souldier, give him entrance.

Enter Baltazar.

Bal. Men show like coarses[215] for I meet few but are stuck with Rosemary: everyone ask'd mee who was married to-day, and I told 'em Adultery and Repentance, and that shame and a Hangman followed 'em to Church.

Med. There's but two parts to play: shame has done hers
But execution must close up the Scaene,
And for that cause these sprigs are worne by all,
Badges of Mariage, now of Funerall,
For death this day turns Courtier.

Bal. Who must dance with him?

Med. The King, and all that are our opposites;
That dart or this must flye into the Court,
Either to shoote this blazing starre from Spaine
Or else so long to wrap him up in clouds
Till all the fatall fires in him burne out,
Leaving his State and conscience cleere from doubt
Of following uprores.

Alb. Kill not but surprize him.

Carl. Thats my voyce still.

Med. Thine, Souldier.

Bal. Oh, this Collicke of a kingdome! when the wind of treason gets amongst the small guts, what a rumbling and a roaring it keepes! and yet, make the best of it you can, it goes out stinking. Kill a King! King!

Daen. Why?

Bal. If men should pull the Sun out of heaven every time 'tis ecclips'd, not all the Wax nor Tallow in Spaine woo'd serve to make us Candles for one yeare.

Med. No way to purge the sicke State but by opening a veine.

Bal. Is that your French Physicke? if every one of us shoo'd be whip'd according to our faults, to be lasht at a carts taile would be held but a flea-biting.

Enter Signeor No:[216] Whispers Medina.

Med. What are you? come you from the King?

No. No.

Bal. No? more no's? I know him, let him enter.

Med. Signeor, I thanke your kind Intelligence. The newes long since was sent into our eares, Yet we embrace your love; so fare you well.

Carl. Will you smell to a sprig of Rosemary?

No. No.

Bal. Will you be hang'd?

No. No.

Bal. This is either Signeor No, or no Signeor.

Med. He makes his love to us a warning-peece To arme our selves against we come to Court, Because the guard is doubled.

Omnes. Tush, we care not.

Bal. If any here armes his hand to cut off the head, let him first plucke out my throat. In any Noble Act Ile wade chin-deepe with you: but to kill a King!

Med. No, heare me—

Bal. You were better, my Lord, saile 500 times to Bantam[217] in the West-Indies than once to Barathrum in the Low-Countries. It's hot going under the line there; the Callenture of the soule is a most miserable madnesse.

Med. Turne, then, this wheele of Fate from shedding blood, Till with her owne hand Iustice weyes all.

Bal. Good.

[Exeunt.

(SCENE 3.)

Queen. Must then his Trul be once more sphear'd in Court
To triumph in my spoyles, in my ecclipses?
And I like moaping Iuno sit whilst Iove
Varies his lust into five hundred shapes
To steale to his whores bed? No, Malateste;
Italian fires of Iealousie burn my marrow:
For to delude my hopes the leacherous King
Cuts out this robe of cunning marriage
To cover his Incontinence, which flames
Hot (as my fury) in his black desires.
I am swolne big with child of vengeance now,
And, till deliver'd, feele the throws of hell.

Mal. Iust is your Indignation, high and noble,
And the brave heat of a true Florentine.
For Spaine Trumpets abroad her Interest
In the Kings heart, and with a black cole drawes
On every wall your scoff'd at injuries.
As one that has the refuse of her sheets,
And the sick Autumne of the weakned King,
Where she drunke pleasures up in the full spring.

Queen. That, Malateste, That, That Torrent wracks me;
But Hymens Torch (held downe-ward) shall drop out,
And for it the mad Furies swing their brands
About the Bride-chamber.

Mal. The Priest that joyns them Our Twin-borne malediction.

Queen. Lowd may it speake.

Mal. The herbs and flowers to strew the wedding way Be Cypresse, Eugh, cold Colloquintida.

Queen. Henbane and Poppey, and that magicall weed[218] Which Hags at midnight watch to catch the seed.

Mal. To these our execrations, and what mischiefe
Hell can but hatch in a distracted braine
Ile be the Executioner, tho it looke
So horrid it can fright e'ne murder backe.

Queen. Poyson his whore to day, for thou shalt wait
On the Kings Cup, and when, heated with wine,
He cals to drinke the Brides health, Marry her
Alive to a gaping grave.

Mal. At board?

Queen. At board.

Mal. When she being guarded round about with friends, Like a faire Iland hem'd with Rocks and Seas,— What rescue shall I find?

Queen. Mine armes? dost faint?
Stood all the Pyrenaean hills, that part
Spaine and our Country, on each others shoulders,
Burning with Aetnean flame, yet thou shouldst on,
As being my steele of resolution
First striking sparkles from my flinty brest.
Wert thou to catch the horses of the Sunne
Fast by their bridles and to turne back day,
Wood'st thou not doo't (base coward) to make way
To the Italians second blisse, revenge?

Mal. Were my bones threatned to the wheele of torture, Ile doo't.

Enter Lopes.

Queen. A ravens voyce, and it likes me well.

Lop. The King expects your presence.

Mal. So, so, we come, To turne this Brides day to a day of doome.

[Exeunt.

(SCENE 4.)

A Banquet set out, Cornets sounding; Enter at one dore Lopez, Valasco, Alanzo, No: after them King, Cardinall, with Don Cockadillio, Bridegroome; Queene and Malateste after. At the other dore Alba, Carlo, Roderigo, Medina and Daenia, leading Onaelia as Bride, Cornego and Iuanna after; Baltazar alone; Bride and Bridegroome kisse, and by the Cardinall are join'd hand in hand: King is very merry, hugging Medina very lovingly.

King. For halfe Spaines weight in Ingots I'de not lose This little man to day.

Med. Nor for so much
Twice told, Sir, would I misse your kingly presence,
Mine eyes have lost th'acquaintance of your face
So long, and I so little late read o're
That Index of the royall book your mind,
That scarce (without your Comment) can I tell
When in those leaves you turne o're smiles or frownes.

King. 'Tis dimnesse of your sight, no fault i'th letter;
Medina, you shall find that free from Errata's:
And for a proofe,
If I could breath my heart in welcomes forth,
This Hall should ring naught else. Welcome, Medina;
Good Marquesse Daenia, Dons of Spaine all welcome!
My dearest love and Queene, be it your place
To entertaine the Bride and doe her grace.

Queen. With all the love I can, whose fire is such, To give her heat, I cannot burne too much.

King. Contracted Bride and Bridegroome sit;
Sweet flowres not pluck'd in season lose their scent,
So will our pleasures. Father Cardinall,
Methinkes this morning new begins our reigne.

Car. Peace had her Sabbath ne're till now in Spaine.

King. Where is our noble Souldier, Baltazar? So close in conference with that Signior?

No. No.

King. What think'st thou of this great day Baltazar?

Bal. Of this day? why, as of a new play, if it ends well all's well. All men are but Actors; now if you, being the King, should be out of your part, or the Queene out of hers or your Dons out of theirs, here's No wil never be out of his.

No. No.

Bal. 'Twere a lamentable peece of stuffe to see great Statesmen have vile Exits; but I hope there are nothing but plaudities in all your Eyes.

King. Mine, I protest, are free.

Queen. And mine, by heaven!

Mal. Free from one goode looke till the blow be given.

King. Wine; a full Cup crown'd to Medina's health!

Med. Your Highnesse this day so much honors me That I, to pay you what I truly owe, My life shall venture for it.

Daen. So shall mine.

King. Onaelia, you are sad: why frownes your brow?

Onae. A foolish memory of my past ills Folds up my looke in furrowes of old care, But my heart's merry, Sir.

King. Which mirth to heighten Your Bridegroome and your selfe first pledge this health Which we begin to our high Constable.

(Three Cups fild: 1 to the King, 2 to the Bridegroome, 3 to Onaelia, with whom the King complements.)

Queen. Is't speeding?

Mal. As all our Spanish figs[219] are.

King. Here's to Medina's heart with all my heart.

Med. My hart shal pledge your hart i'th deepest draught That ever Spanyard dranke.

King. Medina mockes me Because I wrong her with the largest Bowle: Ile change with thee, Onaelia.

(Mal. rages)

Queen. Sir, you shall not.

King. Feare you I cannot fetch it off?

Queen. Malateste!

King. This is your scorne to her, because I am doing This poorest honour to her.—Musicke sound! It goes were it ten fadoms to the ground.

Cornets. King drinkes; Queen and Mal. storms.

Mal. Fate strikes with the wrong weapon.

Queen. Sweet royall Sir, no more: it is too deepe.

Mal. Twill hurt your health, Sir.

King. Interrupt me in my drinke! 'tis off.

Mal. Alas, Sir,
You have drunke your last: that poyson'd bowle I fill'd,
Not to be put into your hand but hers.

King. Poyson'd?

Omnes. Descend black speckled soule to hell. (kil Mal. dyes.)

Mal. The Queene has sent me thither?

Card. What new furie shakes now her snakes locks?

Queen. I, I, tis I, Whose soule is torne in peeces till I send This Harlot home.

Car. More Murders? save the lady.

Balt. Rampant? let the Constable make a mittimus.

Med. Keepe 'em asunder.

Car. How is it royall sonne?

King. I feele no poyson yet; only mine eyes
Are putting out their lights: me thinks I feele
Deaths Icy fingers stroking downe my face;
And now I'me in a mortall cold sweat.

Queen. Deare my Lord.

King. Hence! call in my Physicians.

Med. Thy Physician, Tyrant, Dwels yonder: call on him or none.

King. Bloody Medina! stab'st thou, Brutus, too?

Daen. As hee is so are we all.

King. I burne; My braines boyle in a Caldron: O, one drop Of water now to coole me!

Onae. Oh, let him have Physicians!

Med. Keepe her backe.

King. Physicians for my soule: I need none else.
You'll not deny me those? Oh, holy Father,
Is there no mercy hovering in a cloud
For me, a miserable King, so drench'd
In perjury and murder?

Car. Oh, Sir, great store.

King. Come downe, come quickly downe.

Car. I'll forthwith send For a grave Fryer to be your Confessor.

King. Doe, doe.

Car. And he shall cure your wounded soule: —Fetch him, good Souldier.

Bal. So good a work I'le hasten.

King. Onaelia! oh, shee's drown'd in tears. Onaelia! Let me not dye unpardoned at thy hands.

Enter Baltazar, Sebastian as a Fryer, with others.

Car. Here comes a better Surgeon.

Seb. Haile my good Sonne! I come to be thy ghostly Father.

King. Ha!
My child? tis my Sebastian, or some spirit
Sent in his shape to fright me.

Bal. 'Tis no gobling, Sir, feele: your owne flesh and blood, and much younger than you tho he be bald, and calls you son. Had I bin as ready to cut his sheeps throat as you were to send him to the shambles, he had bleated no more. There's lesse chalke upon you[r] score of sinnes by these round o'es.

King. Oh, my dul soule, looke up; thou art somewhat lighter. Noble Medina, see, Sebastian lives: Onaelia, cease to weepe, Sebastian lives. Fetch me my Crowne: my sweetest pretty Fryer, Can my hands doo't, He raise thee one step higher. Th'ast beene in heavens house all this while, sweet boy?

Seb. I had but coarse cheere.

King. Thou couldst nere fare better:
Religious houses are those hyves where Bees
Make honey for mens soules. I tell thee, Boy,
A Fryery is a Cube which strongly stands,
Fashioned by men, supported by heavens hands:
Orders of holy Priest-hood are as high,
I'th eyes of Angels, as a Kings dignity.
Both these unto a Crowne give the full weight,
And both are thine: you that our Contract know,
See how I scale it with this Marriage;
My blessing and Spaines kingdome both be thine.

Omnes. Long live Sebastian!

Onae. Doff that Fryers course gray, And since hee's crown'd a king, clothe him like one.

King. Oh no; those are right Soveraigne Ornaments:
Had I been cloth'd so I had never fill'd
Spaine's Chronicle with my blacke Calumny.
My worke is almost finish'd: where's my Queene?

Queen. Heere, peece-meale torne by Furies.

King. Onaelia!
Your hand, Paulina, too; Onaelia, yours:
This hand (the pledge of my twice broken faith),
By you usurp'd, is her Inheritance.
My love is turn'd, see, as my fate is turn'd:
Thus they to day laugh, yesterday which mourn'd:
I pardon thee my death. Let her be sent
Backe into Florence with a trebled dowry.
Death comes: oh, now I see what late I fear'd;
A Contract broke, tho piec'd up ne're so well,
Heaven sees, earth suffers, but it ends in hell.
(Moritur.)

Onae. Oh, I could dye with him!

Queen. Since the bright spheare I mov'd in falls, alas, what make I here? [Exit.

Med. The hammers of blacke mischiefe now cease beating,
Yet some irons still are heating. You, Sir Bridegroome,
(Set all this while up as a marke to shoot at)
We here discharge you of your bed fellow:
She loves no Barbars washing.

Cock. My Balls are sav'd then.

Med. Be it your charge, so please you, reverend Sir,
To see the late Queene safely sent to Florence:
My Neece Onaelia, and that trusty Souldier,
We doe appoint to guard the infant King.
Other distractions Time must reconcile;
The State is poyson'd like a Crocodile.

[Exeunt.

FINIS.