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.