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.