Bal. But half a Crowne? that's nothing: His braines sticke in my conscience more than yours.
King. How lost I the French Doctor?
Bal. As French-men lose their haire: here was too hot staying for him.
King. Get thou, too, from my sight: the Queen wu'd see thee.
Bal. Your gold, Sir.
King. Goe with Judas and repent.
Bal. So men hate whores after lusts heat is spent; I'me gone, Sir.
King. Tell me true,—is he dead?
Bal. Dead.
King. No matter; 'tis but morning of revenge; The Sun-set shall be red and Tragicall. [Exit.