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?