King. Thou shalt ha my pardon.
Bal. A word more, Sir; pray will you tell me one thing?
King. Yes, any thing, deare Baltazar.
Bal. Suppose I have your strongest pardon, can that cure my wounded
Conscience? can there your pardon help me? You not onely knocke the
Ewe a'th head, but cut the Innocent Lambes throat too: yet you are no
Butcher!
Queen. Is this thy promis'd yeelding to an Act So wholesome for thy Country?
King. Chide him not.
Bal. I woo'd not have this sinne scor'd on my head For all the Indaean Treasury.
King. That song no more: Doe this and I will make thee a great man.
Bal. Is there no farther trick in't, but my blow, your purse, and my pardon?
Mal. No nets upon my life to entrap thee.