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.