Carl. Thats my voyce still.
Med. Thine, Souldier.
Bal. Oh, this Collicke of a kingdome! when the wind of treason gets amongst the small guts, what a rumbling and a roaring it keepes! and yet, make the best of it you can, it goes out stinking. Kill a King! King!
Daen. Why?
Bal. If men should pull the Sun out of heaven every time 'tis ecclips'd, not all the Wax nor Tallow in Spaine woo'd serve to make us Candles for one yeare.
Med. No way to purge the sicke State but by opening a veine.
Bal. Is that your French Physicke? if every one of us shoo'd be whip'd according to our faults, to be lasht at a carts taile would be held but a flea-biting.
Enter Signeor No:[216] Whispers Medina.
Med. What are you? come you from the King?
No. No.