Alb. No, whilst these wake.
Med. 'Tis the Kings hand.
Bal. Thinke you me a quoyner?
Med. No, no, thou art thy selfe still, Noble Baltazar; I ever knew thee honest, and the marke Stands still upon thy forehead.
Bal. Else flea the skin off.
Med. I ever knew thee valiant and to scorne
All acts of basenesse: I have seene this man
Write in the field such stories with his sword
That our best chiefetaines swore there was in him
As 'twere a new Philosophy of fighting,
His deeds were so Puntillious. In one battell,
When death so nearely mist my ribs, he strucke
Three horses stone-dead under me: this man
Three times that day (even through the jawes of danger)
Redeem'd me up, and (I shall print it ever)
Stood o're my body with Colossus thighes
Whilst all the Thunder-bolts which warre could throw
Fell on his head; and, Baltazar, thou canst not
Be now but honest still and valiant still
Not to kill boyes and women.
Bal. My byter here eats no such meat.
Med. Goe, fetch the mark'd-out Lambe for slaughter hither;
Good fellow souldier, ayd him—and stay—marke,
Give this false fire to the beleeving King,
That the child's sent to heaven but that the mother
Stands rock'd so strong with friends ten thousand billowes
Cannot once shake her.
Bal. This I'le doe.
Med. Away;
Yet one word more; your Counsel, Noble friends;
Harke, Baltazar, because nor eyes nor tongues
Shall by loud Larums that the poore boy lives
Question thy false report, the child shall closely,
Mantled in darknesse, forthwith be conveyed
To the Monastery of Saint Paul.