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.