King. Rise, my goon Angell, Whose holy tunes beat from me that evill spirit Which jogs mine elbow.—Hence, thou dog of hell!
Med. Baw wawghe.
King. Barke out no more, thou Mastiffe; get you all gone, And let my soule sleepe.—There's gold; peace, see it done. [Exit.
Manent Medina, Baltazar, Cardinall.
Bal. Sirra, you Salsa-Perilla Rascall, Toads-guts, you whorson pockey French Spawne of a bursten-bellyed Spyder, doe you heare, Monsire?
Med. Why doe you barke and snap at my Narcissus as if I were de Frenshe doag?
Bal. You Curre of Cerberus litter, (strikes him), you'll poyson the honest Lady? doe but once toot[212] into her chamber-pot and I'll make thee looke worse then a witch does upon a close-stoole.
Car. You shall not dare to touch him, stood he here Single before thee.
Bal. I'le cut the Rat into Anchovies.
Car. I'le make thee kisse his hand, imbrace him, love him, And call him— (Medina discovers)