Chapter VII: Part 7

Oh _Victoria_, love me! And see, thy Husband, now a slave whose life Hangs at a needles poynt, shall live, so thou Breath but the doome.--Trayters! what sorcerous hand Has built upon this inchantment of a Christian To make me doat upon the beauty of it? How comes she to this habite? Went she thus in?

_Epi_. No, Sir, mine owne hande stript her into rags.

_Clown_. For any meat shee has eaten her face needes not make you doate; and for cleane linen Ile sweare it was not brought into the Iaile, for there they scorne to shift once a weeke.

_King_. _Bellizarius_, woe thy wife that she would love me, And thou shalt live.

_Belliz_. I will.--_Victoria_, By all those chaste fires kindled in our bosomes Through which pure love shin'd on our marriage night; Nay, with a bolder conjuration, By all those thornes and bryers which thy soft feet Tread boldly on to finde a path to heaven, I begge of thee, even on my knee I beg, That thou wouldst love this King, take him by th'hand, Warme his in thine, and hang about his necke, And seale ten thousand kisses on his cheeke, So he will tread his false gods under foote.

_Omnes_. Oh, horrible!

_King_. Bring tortures.

_Belliz_. So he will wash his soule white, as we doe, And fight under our Banner (bloody red), And hand in hand with us walke martyred.

_Anton_. They mocke you.

_King_. Stretch his body up by th'armes, And at his feete hang plummets.

_Clown_. He shall be well shod for stroveling, I warrant you.

_Cosmo_. _Eugenius_, bow thy knee before our _Jove_, And the King gives thee mercy.

_Dam_. Else stripes and death.

_Eugen_. We come into the world but at one doore, But twenty thousand gates stand open wide To give us passage hence: death then is easie, And I defie all tortures.

_King_. Then fasten the Cative; I care not for thy wife: Get from mine eyes Thou tempting _Lamia_. But, _Bellizarius_, Before thy bodyes frame be puld in pieces, Wilt thou forsake the errours thou art drencht in?

_Belliz_. Errours? thou blasphemous and godlesse man, From the great Axis maist thou as easie With one arme plucke the Universall Globe, As from my Center move me. There's my figure; They are waves that beat a rock insensible With an infatigable patience. My breast dares all your arrowes; shoote,--shoote, all; Your tortures are but struck against the wall, Which, backe rebounding, hit your selves.

_King_. Up with him.

_Belliz_. Lay on more waights; that hangman which more brings Addes active feathers to my soaring wings.

(_They draw him up_.)

_King_. _Victoria_, yet save him.

_Vict_. Keepe on thy flight, And be a bird of Paradise.

_Omnes_. Give him more Irons.

_Belliz_. More, more.

_King_. Let him then goe; love thou and be my Queene, Daine but to love me.

_Vict_. I am going to live with a farre greater King.

_King_. Binde the coy strumpet; she dyes, too. Let her braines be beaten on an Anvill: For some new plagues for her!

_Omnes_. Vexe him.

_Belliz_. Doe more.

_Vict_. Heavens, pardon you.

_Eugen_. And strengthen him in all his sufferings.

_Two Angels descend_.

2 ANGEL SINGS.

_Come, oh come, oh come away;
A Quire of Angels for thee stay;
A home where Diamonds borrow light,
Open stands for thee this night,
Night? no, no; here is ever day:
Come, oh come, oh come, oh come away_.

1 _Ang_. This battaile is thy last; fight well, and winne A Crowne set full of Starres.

_Belliz_. I spy an arme Plucking [me] up to heaven; more waights, you are best; I shall be gone else.

_Vict_. Doe, Ile follow thee.

_King_. Is he not yet dispatcht?

_Belliz_. Yes, King, I thanke thee; I have all my life time trod on rotten ground, And still so deepe beene sinking that my soule Was oft like to bee lost; but now I see A guide, sweete guide, a blessed messenger Who having brought me up a little way Up yonder hill, I then am sure to buy For a few stripes here rich eternity.

2 ANGEL SINGS.

_Victory, victory! hell is beaten downe,
The Martyr has put on a golden Crowne;
Ring Bels of Heaven, him welcome hither,
Circle him Angels round together_.

1 _Angel_. Follow!

_Vict_. I will; what sacred voice cryes 'follow'! I am ready: Oh send me after him.

_King_. Thou shalt not, Till thou hast fed my lust.

_Vict_. Thou foole, thou canst not; All my mortality is shaken off; My heart of flesh and blood is gone; my body Is chang'd; this face is not that once was mine. I am a Spirit, and no racke of thine Can touch me.

_King_. Not a racke of mine shall touch thee. Why should the world loose such a paire of Sunnes As shine out from thine eyes? Why art thou cruell, To make away thy selfe and murther mee? Since whirle-winds cannot shake thee thou shalt live, And Ile fanne gentle gales upon thy face. Fetch me a day bed, rob the earths perfumes Of all the ravishing sweetes to feast her sence; Pillowes of roses shall beare up her head; O would a thousand springs might grow in one To weave a flowry mantle o're her limbes As she lyes downe.

_Enter two Angels about the bed_.

_Vict_. O that some rocke of Ice Might fall on me and freeze me into nothing.

_King_. Enchant our [her?] eares with Musicke; would I had skill To call the winged musitians of the aire Into these roomes! they all should play to thee Till golden slumbers danc'd upon thy browes, Watching to close thine eye-lids.

_Ang_. These Starres must shine no more; soule, flye away. Tyrant, enioy but a cold lumpe of clay.

_King_. My charmes worke; shee sleepes, And lookes more lovely now she sleepes. Against she wakes, Invention, grow thou poore, Studying to finde a banquet which the gods Might be invited to. I need not court her now For a poor kisse; her lips are friendly now, And with the warme breath sweeting all the Aire, Draw mee thus to them.--Ha! the lips of Winter Are not so cold.

_Anton_. She's dead, Sir.

_King_. Dead?

_Dam_. As frozen as if the North-winde had in spight Snatcht her hence from you.

_King_. Oh; I have murthered her! Perfumes some creature kill: she has so long In that darke Dungeon suck't pestiferous breath, The sweete has stifled her. Take hence the body, Since me it hated it shall feele my hate: Cast her into the fire; I have lost her, And for her sake all Christians shall be lost That subjects are to me: massacre all, But thou, _Eugenius_, art the last shall fall This day; and in mine eye, though it nere see more, Call on thy helper which thou dost adore.

_A Thunder-bolt strikes him_.

_Omnes_. The King is strucke with thunder!

_Eugen_. Thankes, Divine Powers; Yours be the triumph and the wonder ours.

_Anton_. Unbinde him till a new King fill the throne; And he shall doome him.

_A Hubert, a Hubert, a Hubert_!

_Flourish: Enter Hubert, armed with shields and swords.
Bellina and a company of Souldiers with him_.

_Hub_. What meanes this cry, 'a Hubert'? Where's your King?

_Omnes_. Strucke dead by thunder.

_Hub_. So I heare; you see, then, There is an arme more rigorous than your _Iove_, An arme stretcht from above to beate down Gyants, The mightiest Kings on _Earth_, for all their shoulders Carry _Colossi_ heads: the memory Of _Genzericks_ name dyes here: _Henricke_ gives buriall To the successive glory of that race Who had both voyce and title to the Crowne, And meanes to guard it.--Who must now be King?

_Anton_. We know not till we call the Lords together.

_Hub_. What Lords?

_Cosmo_. Our selves and others.

_Hub_. Who makes you Lords? The Tree upon whose boughs your honours grew, Your Lordships and your lives, is falne to th'ground.

_Dam_. We stand on our owne strength.

_Hub_. Who must be King?

_Within: A Hubert, a Hubert a Hubert_!

_Hub_. Deliver to my hand that reverent [_sic_] man.

_Epi_. Take him and torture him, for he cald down Vengeance On _Henricks_ head.

_Hub_. Good _Eugenius_, lift thy hands up, For thou art say'd from _Henricke_ and from these. You heare what ecchoes Rebound from earth to heaven, from heaven to earth, Casting the name of King onely on me? This golden apple is a tempting fruit; It is within my reach; this sword can touch it, And lop the weake branch off on which it hangs. Which of you all would spurne at such a Starre, Lay it i'th the dust when 'tis let down from heaven For him to weare?

_Anton_. Who then must weare that Starre?

_Within: Hubert, Hubert, Hubert_!

_Hub_. The Oracle tells you; Oracle? 'tis a voyce From above tells you; for the peoples tongues, When they pronounce good things, are ty'd to chaines Of twenty thousand linkes, which chaines are held By one supernall hand, and cannot speake But what that hand will suffer. I have then The people on my side; I have the souldiers; I have that army which your rash young King Had bent against the Christians,--they now are mine: I am the Center, and they all are lines Meeting in me. If, therefore, these strong sinewes, The Souldiers and the Commons, have a vertue To lift me into the Throne, Ile leape into it. Will you consent or no? be quick in answer; I must be swift in execution else.

_Omnes_. Let us consult.

_Hub_. Doe, and doe't quickly.

_Eugen_. O noble Sir, if you be King shoot forth Bright as a Sunne-beame, and dry up these vapours That choake this kingdome; dry the seas of blood Flowing from Christians, and drinke up the teares Of those alive, halfe slaughter'd in their feares.

_Hub_. Father, Ile not offend you.--Have you done? So long chusing one Crowne?

_Anton_. Let Drums and Trumpets proclaime _Hubert_ our King!

_Omnes_. Sound Drummes and Trumpets!

_Hub_. I have it, then, as well by voyce as sword; For should you holde it backe it will be mine. I claime it, then, by conquest; fields are wonne By yeelding as by strokes: Yet, noble _Vandals_, I will lay by the Conquest and acknowledge That your hands and your hearts the pinnacles are On which my greatnesse mounts unto this height. And now in sight of you and heaven I sweare By those new sacred fires kindled within me, 'Tis not your ho[o]pe of Gold my brow desires; A thronging Court to me is but a Cell; These popular acclamations, which thus dance I'th Aire, should passe by me as whistling windes Playing with leaves of trees. I'me not ambitious Of Titles glorious and maiesticall; But what I doe is to save blood, save you; I meane to be a husband for you all, And fill you all with riches.

_Epi_. 'Tis that we thirst for; For all our bagges are emptied in these warres Rais'd by seditious Christians.

_Hub_. Peace, thou foole: They are not bags of gold, that melts in fire, Which I will fill your coffers with; my treasury Are riches for your soules; my armes are spread Like wings to protect Christians. What have you done? Proclaim'd a Christian King; and Christian Kings Should not be bloody.

_Omnes_. How? turn'd Christian?

_Eugen_. O blest King! happy day!

_Omnes_. Must we forsake our Gods then?

_Hub_. Violent streames Must not bee stopt by violence; there's an art To meete and put by the most boysterous wave; 'Tis now no policy for you to murmure Nor will I threaten. A great counsell by you Shall straight be cal'd to set this frame in order Of this great state.

_Omnes_. To that we all are willing.

_Hub_. Are you then willing this noble maid Shall be my Queene?

_Omnes_. With all our hearts.

_Hub_. By no hand but by thine will we be crown'd: Come, my _Bellina_.

_Bellina_. Your vow is past to me that I should ever Preserve my virgin honour, that you would never Tempt me unto your bed.

_Hub_. That vow I keepe: I vow'd so long as my knees bow'd to _Iove_ To let you be your selfe; but, excellent Lady, I now am seal'd a Christian as you are: And you have sworne oft that, when upon my forehead That glorious starre was stucke, you would be mine In holy wedlocke. Come, sweete, you and I Shall from our loynes produce a race of Kings, And ploughing up false gods set up one true; Christians unborne crowning both me and you With praise as now with gold.

_Bellina_. A fortunate day; A great power prompts me on and I obey.

(_Flourish_)

_Omnes_. Long live _Hubert_ and _Bellina_, King and Queene Of Goths and Vandals.

_Hub_. Two royall Iewels you give me, this and this: Father, your hand is lucky, I am covetous Of one Gift more: After your sacred way Make you this Queene a wife: our Coronation Is turn'd into a bridall.

_Omnes_. All ioy and happinesse.

_Hub_. To guard your lives will I lay out mine owne, And like Vines plant you round about my throne.

_The end of the fift and last Act_.

To the Reader of this Play now come in Print.

That this play's old 'tis true; but now if any Should for that cause despise it we have many Reasons, both iust and pregnant, to maintaine Antiquity, and those, too, not all vaine. We know (and not long since) there was a time Strong lines were not lookt after, but, if Rime, O then 'twas excellent. Who but beleeves That Doublets with stuft bellies and big sleeves And those Trunk-hose[177] which now our life doth scorne Were all in fashion and with custome worne? And what's now out of date who is't can tell But it may come in fashion and sute well? With rigour therefore iudge not but with reason, Since what you read was fitted to that season.

The Epilogue.

_As in a Feast, so in a Comedy, Two Sences must be pleas'd; in both the Eye; In Feasts the Eye and Taste must be invited, In Comedies the Eye and Eare delighted: And he that only seekes to please but either, While both he doth not please, he pleaseth neither. What ever Feast could every guest content, When as t'each man each Taste is different? But lesse a Scene, when nought but as 'tis newer Can please, where Guests are more and Dishes fewer. Yet in this thought, this thought the Author eas'd; Who once made all, all rules all never pleas'd.[178] Faine would we please the best, if not the many; And sooner will the best be pleas'd then any. Our rest we set[179] in pleasing of the best; So we wish you, what you may give us, Rest_.

FINIS.

INTRODUCTION TO THE NOBLE SOULDIER.

In December, 1633, Nicholas Vavasour entered the _Noble Spanish Souldier_ on the Stationers' Registers as a work of Dekker's; and in the following year the same publisher brought out the _Noble Soldier_ with the initials _S.R_. on the title-page. The running-title of the piece is _The Noble Spanish Souldier_. There is nothing to hinder us from supposing that Dekker, unwilling to take the credit due to his dead friend, informed the publisher of the mistake. Possibly the play had undergone some revision at Dekker's hands.

Samuel Rowley was at once an actor and a playwright. The first mention of him is in a list of the Lord Admiral's players, March 8, 1597-8 (Henslowe's _Diary_, ed. Collier, p. 120). On the sixteenth of November, 1599, Rowley bound himself to play solely for Henslowe 'for a year and as much as to Shraftide' (_Diary_, p. 260). In 1603 we find him among Prince Henry's players (Collier's _Annals of the Stage_, i. 351): he is still belonging to the same company in 1607 (Shakespeare Society's Papers, iv. 44). Six years later, 1613, he is among the Palsgrave's players (_Annals of the Stage_, i. 381).[180]

Francis Meres in _Palladis Tamia_ (1598), enumerating 'the best for comedy,' mentions a certain Maister _Rowley_ once a rare scholar of learned Pembrooke Hall in Cambridge. It has been conjectured that the allusion is to Samuel Rowley; but a more likely candidate for the honour is Ralph Rowley, who is known to have been a Fellow of Pembroke Hall. We do not learn from any other source that Ralph Rowley wrote plays; but, like another Academic worthy in whose company he is mentioned, 'Dr. Gager of Oxforde', he may have composed some Latin pieces that the world was content to let die. Of Samuel Rowley as a playwright we hear nothing before December, 1601, when he was writing for Henslowe a scriptural play on the subject of _Judas_ in company with his fellow-actor William Borne--or Birde, for the name is variously written (Henslowe's _Diary_, p. 205). In July of the following year an entry occurs in the _Diary_--'Lent unto Samwell Rowley and Edward Jewbe to paye for the Booke of Samson, vi 1.' Samuel Rowley and Edward Jewby often acted as paymasters for Henslowe; but I suspect that in the present instance the money went into their own pockets. Two months later we certainly find our author receiving the sum of seven pounds in full payment 'for his playe of Jhoshua' (Henslowe's _Diary_, p. 226). In November of the same year he was employed with William Birde to make additions to Marlowe's _Faustus_ (ibid. p. 228). On July 27, 1623, Sir Henry Herbert licensed 'for the Palsgrave's players a tragedy of Richard the Third, or the English Profit with the Reformation, by Samuel Rowley'; and, again, on October 29 of the same year 'for the Palsgrave players a new comedy called Hard Shifte for Husbands, or Bilboes the Best Blade, written by Samuel Rowley.' Another of our author's pieces, 'Hymen's Holiday, or Cupid's Fagaries,' is mentioned in a list of plays which belonged to the Cock-pit in 1639. None of these plays has come down; but in 1605 there was published 'When You See Me You Know Me; or the famous Chronicle Historic of King Henry VIII. with the Birth and virtuous Life of Edward Prince of Wales. By Samuel Rowley.' This play was again printed in 1632; and a few years ago it was elaborately edited by Prof. Karl Eltze, who--whatever may be his merits as a critic--is acknowledged on every hand to be a most accomplished scholar.

The piece now reprinted will need some indulgence at the reader's hands. Its blemishes are not a few; and no great exercise of critical ability is required to discover that the language is often strained and the drawing extravagant. The atmosphere in which the action of the piece moves is hot and heavy. Sebastian's presence in the third act brings with it a ray of sunlight; but he is quickly gone, and the gloom settles down more hopelessly than before. Onaelia, the forsaken lady, is so vixenish that she moves our sympathies only in a moderate degree. In both choices the King seems to have been equally unfortunate; and it may be doubted whether he could be 'happy with either were t'other fair charmer away.' Baltazar, the Noble Soldier, is something of a bore. At first we are a little suspicious of him, for he seems to 'protest too much'; and even when these suspicions are set at rest his strut and swagger continue to be offensive.

But though the _Noble Souldier_ is not a play over which one would linger long or to which one would care often to return, yet it is impossible not to be struck by the power that marks so much of the writing. Here is an example of our author at his best:--

'You should, my Lord, be like these robes you weare,
Pure as the Dye and like that reverend shape;
Nurse thoughts as full of honour, zeale and purity.
You should be the Court-Diall and direct
The king with constant motion; be ever beating
(Like to Clocke-Hammers) on his Iron heart
To make it sound cleere and to feel remorse:
You should unlocke his soule, wake his dead conscience
Which, like a drowsie Centinell, gives leave
For sinnes vast army to beleaguer him:
His ruines will be ask'd for at your hands.'--(i. 2.)

There is the true dramatic ring in those lines; the words come straight from the heart and strike home. The swift sudden menace in the last line is more effective than pages of rhetoric.

The _Noble Souldier_ affords a good illustration of the sanctity attached by our ancestors to marriage-contracts. On this subject the reader will find some interesting remarks in Mr. Spalding's _Elizabethan Demonology_ (pp. 3-7).

THE NOBLE SOVLDIER,

OR,

A CONTRACT BROKEN, JUSTLY REVENG'D.

_A TRAGEDY.

Written by_ S.R.

_Non est, Lex Iustior Ulla,
Quam Nescis Artifices, Arte perire Sua.

LONDON_:
Printed for _Nicholas Vavasour_, and are to be
sold at his shop in the _Temple_, neere the
Church. 1634.

_The_ Printer _to the_ Reader.

Understanding Reader, I present this to your view which has received applause in Action. The Poet might conceive a compleat satisfaction upon the Stages approbation. But the Printer rests not there, knowing that that which was acted and approved upon the Stage might be no less acceptable in Print. It is now communicated to you whose leisure and knowledge admits of reading and reason: Your Judgment now this _Posthumus_ assures himself will well attest his predecessors endevours to give content to men of the ablest quality, such as intelligent readers are here conceived to be. I could have troubled you with a longer epistle, but I feare to stay you from the booke, which affords better words and matter than I can. So, the work modestly depending in the skale of your Judgment, the Printer for his part craves your pardon, hoping by his promptness to doe you greater service as conveniency shall enable him to give you more or better testimony of his entirenesse towards you. N.V.

Dramatis Personae.

_King of Spaine. Cardinall. Duke of Medina_.

Marquesse _Daenia, | Alba, | Roderigo, | Dons of Spayne. Valasco, | Lopez_. |

_Queene_, A Florentine. _Onaelia_, Neece to _Medina_, the Contracted Lady. _Sebastian_, Her Sounne. _Malateste_, A Florentine. _Baltazar_, The Souldier. _A Poet_. _Cockadillio_, A foolish Courtier. _A Fryer_.

[To make the list complete we should add--

_Cornego. Carlo. Alanzo. Signer No_.]

THE NOBLE SPANISH SOULDIER.

_Actus Primus_.

SCAENA PRIMA.

_Enter in Magnificent state, to the sound of lowd
musicke, the King and Queene as from Church,
attended by the Cardinall, Count Malateste, Daenia,
Roderigo, Valasco, Alba, Carlo, and some waiting
Ladies. The King and Queen with Courtly
Complements salute and part; she with one halfe
attending her; King, Cardinall and th'other halfe
stay, the King seeming angry and desirous to be
rid of them too.--King, Cardinal, Daenia, &c_.

_King_. Give us what no man here is master of, Breath; leave us, pray: my father Cardinall Can by the Physicke of Philosophy Set al agen in order. Leave us, pray.

[_Exeunt_.

_Card_. How is it with you, Sir?

_King_. As with a Shippe Now beat with stormes, now safe the stormes are vanisht; And having you my Pylot I not onely See shore but harbour. I to you will open The booke of a blacke sinne deepe-printed in me. Oh, father, my disease lyes in my soule.

_Card_. The old wound, Sir?

_King_. Yes, that; it festers inward: For though I have a beauty to my bed That even Creation envies at, as wanting Stuffe to make such another, yet on her pillow I lye by her but an Adulterer And she as an Adulteresse. Shee's my Queene And wife, yet but my strumpet, tho the Church Set on the seale of Mariage: good _Onaelia_, Neece to our Lord high Constable of Spaine, Was precontracted mine.

_Card_. Yet when I stung Your Conscience with remembrance of the Act, Your eares were deafe to counsell.

_King_. I confesse it.

_Card_. Now to unty the knot with your new Queene Would shake the Crowne halfe from your head.

_King_. Even Troy (Tho she hath wept her eyes out) wud find teares To wayle my kingdomes ruines.

_Card_. What will you doe then?

_King_. She has that Contract written, seal'd by you And other Churchmen (witnesses untoo't). A kingdome should be given for that paper.

_Card_. I wud not, for what lyes beneath the Moone, Be made a wicked Engine to breake in pieces That holy Contract.

_King_. 'Tis my soules ayme to tye it Vpon a faster knot.

_Card_. I do not see How you can with safe conscience get it from her.

_King_. Oh, I know I wrastle with a Lyonesse: to imprison her And force her too't I dare not. Death! what King Did ever say I dare not? I must have it. A Bastard have I by her; and that Cocke Will have (I feare) sharpe spurres, if he crow after Him that trod for him. Something must be done Both to the Henne and Chicken: haste you therefore To sad _Onaelia_; tell her I'm resolv'd To give my new Hawke bells and let her flye; My Queene I'm weary of and her will marry. To this our Text adde you what glosse you please; The secret drifts of Kings are depthlesse Seas.

[_Exeunt_.

(SCENE 2.)

_A Table set out cover'd with blacke: two waxen tapers:
the Kings Picture at one end, a Crucifix at the other:
Onaelia walking discontentedly weeping to the Crucifix,
her Mayd with her: to them Cornego_.

SONG.

Quest. _Oh sorrow, sorrow, say, where dost thou dwell_?

Answ. _In the lowest roome of Hell_.

Quest. _Art thou borne of Humane race_?

Answ. _No, no, I have a furier[181] face_.

Quest. _Art thou in City, Towne or Court_?

Answ. _I to every place resort_.

Quest. _O why into the world is sorrow sent_?

Answ. _Men afflicted best repent_.

Quest. _What dost thou feed on_?

Answ. _Broken sleepe_.

Quest. _What tak'st thou pleasure in_?

Answ. _To weepe,
To sigh, to sob, to pine, to groane,
To wring my hands, to sit alone_.

Quest. _Oh when, oh when shall sorrow quiet have?_

Answ. _Never, never, never, never,
Never till she finds a grave_.

_Enter Cornego_.

_Corn_. No lesson, Madam, but Lacrymae's?[182] If you had buried nine husbands, so much water as you might squeeze out of an Onyon had been teares enow to cast away upon fellowes that cannot thanke you. Come, be joviall.

_Onae_. Sorrow becomes me best.

_Corn_. A suit of laugh and lye downe[183] would weare better.

_Onae_. What should I doe to be merry, _Cornego_?

_Corn_. Be not sad.

_Onae_. But what's the best mirth in the world?

_Corn_. Marry, this: to see much, say little, doe little, get little, spend little and want nothing.

_Onae_. Oh, but there is a mirth beyond all these: This picture has so vex'd me I'me half mad. To spite it therefore I'le sing any song Thy selfe shalt tune: say then, what mirth is best?

_Corn_. Why then, Madam, what I knocke out now is the very Maribone of mirth; and this it is.

_Onae_. Say on.

_Corn_. The best mirth for a Lawyer is to have fooles to his Clients; for Citizens to have Noblemen pay their debts; for Taylors to have store of Sattin brought in for them--how little soere their hours are--they'll be sure to have large yards: the best mirth for bawds is to have fresh handsome whores, and for whores to have rich guls come aboard their pinnaces, for then they are sure to build Gully-Asses.

_Onae_. These to such soules are mirth, but to mine none: Away!

[_Exit Corn_.

_Enter Cardinall_.

_Car_. Peace to you, Lady.

_Onae_. I will not sinne so much as hope for peace: And 'tis a mocke ill suits your gravity.

_Card_. I come to knit the nerves of your lost strength, To build your ruines up, to set you free From this your voluntary banishment, And give new being to your murd'red fame.

_Onae_. What _Aesculapius_ can doe this?

_Card_. The King--'tis from the King I come.

_Onae_. A name I hate: Oh I am deafe now to your Embassie.

_Card_. Heare what I speake.

_Onae_. Your language, breath'd from him, Is deaths sad doome upon a wretch condemn'd.

_Car_. Is it such poyson?

_Onae_. Yes; and, were you christall, What the King fills you with, wud make you breake. You should, my Lord, be like these robes you weare, Pure as the Dye and like that reverend shape; Nurse thoughts as full of honour, zeale and purity. You should be the Court-Diall and direct The King with constant motion; be ever beating (Like to Clocke-Hammers) on his Iron heart, To make it sound cleere and to feele remorse: You should unlocke his soule, wake his dead conscience Which, like a drowsie Centinell, gives leave For sinnes vast army to beleaguer him. His ruines will be ask'd for at your hands.

_Car_. I have rais'd up a scaffolding to save Both him and you from falling: doe but heare me.

_Onae_. Be dumbe for ever.

_Car_. Let your feares thus dye: By all the sacred relliques of the Church And by my holy orders, what I minister Is even the spirit of health.

_Onae_. I'le drinke it downe into my soule at once.

_Car_. You shall.

_Onae_. But sweare.

_Car_. What conjurations can more bind mine oath?

_Onae_. But did you sweare in earnest?

_Car_. Come, you trifle.

_Onae_. No marvell, for my hopes have bin so drown'd I still despaire. Say on.

_Car_. The King repents.

_Onae_. Pray, that agen, my Lord.

_Car_. The King repents.

_Onae_. His wrongs to me?

_Car_. His wrongs to you: the sense Of sinne has pierc'd his soule.

_Onae_. Blest penitence!

_Car_. 'Has turn'd his eyes[184] into his leprous bosome, And like a King vowes execution On all his traiterous passions.

_Onae_. God-like Justice!

_Car_. Intends in person presently to begge Forgivenesse for his Acts of heaven and you.

_Onae_. Heaven pardon him; I shall.

_Car_. Will marry you.

_Onae_. Umph! marry me? will he turne Bigamist? When, when?

_Car_. Before the morrow Sunne hath rode Halfe his dayes journey; will send home his Queene As one that staines his bed and can produce Nothing but bastard Issue to his Crowne.-- Why, how now? lost in wonder and amazement?

_Onae_. I am so stor'd with joy that I can now Strongly weare out more yeares of misery Than I have liv'd.

_Enter King_.

_Car_. You need not: here's the King.

_King_. Leave us.
[_Exit Car_.

_Onae_. With pardon, Sir, I will prevent you And charge upon you first.

_King_. 'Tis granted; doe.-- But stay; what meane these Embleames of distresse? My Picture so defac'd! oppos'd against A holy Crosse! roome hung in blacke, and you Drest like chiefe Mourner at a Funerall!

_Onae_. Looke backe upon your guilt (deare Sir), and then The cause that now seemes strange explaines it selfe. This and the Image of my living wrongs Is still confronted by me to beget Griefe like my shame, whose length may outlive Time: This Crosse the object of my wounded soule, To which I pray to keepe me from despaire, That ever, as the sight of one throwes up Mountaines of sorrowes on my accursed head, Turning to that, Mercy may checke despaire And bind my hands from wilfull violence.

_King_. But who hath plaid the Tyrant with me thus, And with such dangerous spite abus'd my picture?

_Onae_. The guilt of that layes claime, Sir, to your selfe; For, being by you ransack'd of all my fame, Rob'd of mine honour and deare chastity, Made by you[r] act the shame of all my house, The hate of good men and the scorne of bad, The song of Broome-men and the murdering vulgar, And left alone to beare up all these ills By you begun, my brest was fill'd with fire And wrap'd in just disdaine; and, like a woman, On that dumb picture wreak'd I my passions.

_King_. And wish'd it had beene I.

_Onae_. Pardon me, Sir: My wrongs were great and my revenge swell'd high.

_King_. I will descend and cease to be a King, To leave my judging part; freely confessing Thou canst not give thy wrongs too ill a name. And here, to make thy apprehension full And seat thy reason in a sound beleefe, I vow to morrow (e're the rising sunne Begin his journey), with all Ceremonies Due to the Church, to scale our Nuptials; To prive[185] thy sonne, with full consent of State, Spaines heire Apparant, borne in wedlock vowes.

_Onae_. And will you sweare to this?

_King_. By this I sweare.

_Onae_. Oh you have sworne false oathes upon that booke.

_King_. Why, then by this.

_Onae_. Take heed you print it deeply. How for your concubine (Bride, I cannot say)? She staines your bed with black Adultery; And though her fame maskes in a fairer shape Then mine to the worlds eye, yet (King) you know Mine honour is less strumpetted than hers, However butcher'd in opinion.

_King_. This way for her: the contract (which thou hast) By best advice of all our Cardinals To day shall be enlarg'd till it be made Past all dissolving: then to our Counsell-Table Shall she be call'd, that read aloud, she told The Church commands her quicke returne for _Florence_, With such a dower as _Spaine_ received with her; And that they will not hazard heavens dire curse To yeeld to a match unlawfull, which shall taint The issue of the King with Bastardy. This done, in State Majestic come you forth (Our new-crown'd Queene) in sight of all our Peeres. --Are you resolv'd?

_Onae_. To doubt of this were Treason Because the King has sworne it.

_King_. And will keepe it. Deliver up the Contract then, that I May make this day end with my misery.

_Onae_. Here, as the dearest Jewell of my fame, Lock'd I this parchment from all viewing eyes; This your Indenture held alone the life Of my suppos'd dead honour: yet (behold) Into your hands I redeliver it. Oh keepe it, Sir, as you should keepe that vow To which (being sign'd by Heaven) even Angels bowe.

_King_. 'Tis in the Lions pawe, and who dares snatch it? Now to your Beads and Crucifix agen.

_Onae_. Defend me, heaven!

_King_. Pray there may come Embassadors from _France_: Their followers are good Customers.

_Onae_. Save me from madnesse!

_King_. 'Twill raise the price being the Kings Mistris.

_Onae_. You doe but counterfeit to mocke my joyes.

_King_. Away, bold strumpet.

_Onae_. Are there eyes in heaven to see this?

_King_. Call and try: here's a whore curse, To fall in that beleefe which her sunnes nurse. [_Exit_.

_Enter Cornego_.

_Corn_. How now? what quarter of the Moone has she cut out now? My Lord puts me into a wise office, to be a mad womans keeper! Why, Madam?

_Onae_. Ha! where is the King, thou slave?

_Corn_. Let go your hold or I'le fall upon you, as I am a man.

_Onae_. Thou treacherous caitiffe, where's the King?

_Corn_. Hee's gone, but no so farre gone as you are.

_Onae_. Cracke all in sunder, oh you battlements, And grind me into powder!

_Corn_. What powder? come, what powder? when did you ever see a woman grinded into powder? I am sure some of your sex powder men and pepper 'em too.

_Onae_. Is there a vengeance Yet lacking to my ruine? let it fall, Now let it fall upon me!

_Corn_. No, there has too much falne upon you already.

_Onae_. Thou villaine, leave thy hold! Ile follow him: Like a rais'd ghost I'le haunt him, breake his sleepe, Fright him as hee's embracing his new Leman Till want of rest bids him runne mad and dye, For making oathes Bawds to his perjury.

_Corn_. Pray be more reason'd: if he made any Bawdes he did ill, for there is enough of that fly-blowne flesh already.

_Onae_. I'me now left naked quite: All's gone, all, all!

_Corn_. No, Madam, not all; for you cannot be rid of me.--Here comes your Uncle.

_Enter Medina_.

_Onae_. Attir'd in robes of vengeance are you, Uncle?

_Med_. More horrors yet?

_Onae_. 'Twas never full till now: And in this torrent all my hopes lye drown'd.

_Med_. Instruct me in this cause.

_Onae_. The King! the Contract!
[_Exit_.

_Corn_. There's cud enough for you to chew upon.
[_Exit_.

_Med_. What's this? a riddle? how? the King, the Contract? The mischiefe I divine which, proving true, Shall kindle fires in Spaine to melt his Crowne Even from his head: here's the decree of fate,-- A blacke deed must a blacke deed expiate. [_Exit_.

_Actus Secundus_.

SCAENA PRIMA[186].

_Enter Baltazar, slighted by Dons_.

_Bal_. Thou god of good Apparell, what strange fellowes Are bound to do thee honour! Mercers books Shew mens devotions to thee; heaven cannot hold A Saint so stately. Do not my Dons know Because I'me poor in clothes? stood my beaten Taylor Playting my rich hose, my silke stocking-man Drawing upon my Lordships Courtly calfe Payres of Imbroydered things whose golden clockes Strike deeper to the faithfull shop-keepers heart Than into mine to pay him;--had my Barbour Perfum'd my louzy thatch here and poak'd out My Tuskes more stiffe than are a cats muschatoes-- These pide-winged Butterflyes had known me then. Another flye-boat?[187] save thee, Illustrious Don.

_Enter Don Roderigo_.

Sir, is the king at leisure to speake Spanish With a poore Souldier?

_Ro_. No.

_Bal_. No! sirrah you, no; You Don with th'oaker face, I wish to ha thee But on a Breach, stifling with smoke and fire, And for thy 'No' but whiffing Gunpowder Out of an Iron pipe, I woo'd but ask thee If thou wood'st on, and if thou didst cry No Thou shudst read Canon-Law; I'de make thee roare And weare cut-beaten-sattyn: I woo'd pay thee Though thou payst not thy mercer,--meere Spanish Jennets!

_Enter Cockadillio_.

Signeor, is the king at leisure?

_Cock_. To doe what?

_Balt_. To heare a Souldier speake.

_Cock_. I am no eare-picker To sound his hearing that way.

_Bal_. Are you of Court, Sir?

_Cock_. Yes, the kings Barber.

_Bal_. That's his eare picker.--Your name, I pray?

_Cock_. Don _Cockadillio_. If, Souldier, thou hast suits to begge at Court I shall descend so low as to betray Thy paper to the hand Royall.

_Bal_. I begge, you whorson muscod! my petition Is written on my bosome in red wounds.

_Cock_. I am no Barbar-Surgeon.
[_Exit_.

_Bal_. You yellow-hammer! why, shaver! That such poore things as these, onely made up Of Taylors shreds and Merchants Silken rags And Pothecary drugs (to lend their breaths Sophisticated smells, when their ranke guts Stink worse than cowards in the heat of battaile) --Such whalebond-doublet-rascals that owe more To Landresses and Sempstress for laced Linnen Then all their race, from their great grand-father To this their reigne, in clothes were ever worth; These excrements of Silke-wormes! oh that such flyes Doe buzze about the beames of Majesty! Like earwigs tickling a kings yeelding eare With that Court-Organ (Flattery), when a souldier Must not come neere the Court gates twenty score, But stand for want of clothes (tho he win Towns) Amongst the Almesbasket-men! his best reward Being scorn'd to be a fellow to the blacke gard[188]. Why shud a Souldier, being the worlds right arme, Be cut thus by the left, a Courtier? Is the world all Ruffe and Feather and nothing else? Shall I never see a Taylor give his coat with a difference from a gentleman?

_Enter King, Alanzo, Carlo, Cockadillio_.

_King_. My _Baltazar_! Let us make haste to meet thee: how art thou alter'd! Doe you not know him?

_Alanz_. Yes, Sir; the brave Souldier Employed against the Moores.

_King_. Halfe turn'd Moore! I'le honour thee: reach him a chair--that Table: And now _Aeneas_-like let thine own Trumpet Sound forth thy battell with those slavish Moores.

_Bal_. My musicke is a Canon; a pitcht field my stage; Furies the Actors, blood and vengeance the scaene; death the story; a sword imbrued with blood the pen that writes; and the Poet a terrible buskind Tragical fellow with a wreath about his head of burning match instead of Bayes.

_King_. On to the Battaile!

_Bal_. 'Tis here, without bloud-shed: This our maine Battalia, this the Van, this the Vaw[189], these the wings: here we fight, there they flye; here they insconce, and here our sconces lay 17 Moours on the cold earth.

_King_. This satisfies mine eye, but now mine eare Must have his musicke too; describe the battaile.

_Bal_. The Battaile? Am I come from doing to talking? The hardest part for a Souldier to play is to prate well; our Tongues are Fifes, Drums, Petronels, Muskets, Culverin and Canon; these are our Roarers; the Clockes which wee goe by are our hands: thus we reckon tenne, our swords strike eleven, and when steele targets of proofe clatter one against another, then 'tis noone; that's the height and the heat of the day of battaile.

_King_. So.

_Bal_. To that heat we came, our Drums beat, Pikes were shaken and shiver'd, swords and Targets clash'd and clatter'd, Muskets ratled, Canons roar'd, men dyed groaning, brave laced Jerkings and Feathers looked pale, totter'd[190] rascals fought pell mell; here fell a wing, there heads were tost like foot-balls; legs and armes quarrell'd in the ayre and yet lay quietly on the earth; horses trampled upon heaps of carkasses, Troopes of Carbines tumbled wounded from their horses; we besiege Moores and famine us; Mutinies bluster and are calme. I vow'd not to doff mine Armour, tho my flesh were frozen too't and turn'd into Iron, nor to cut head nor beard till they yeelded; my hayres and oath are of one length, for (with _Caesar_) thus write I mine owne story, _Veni, vidi, vici_.

_King_. A pitch'd field quickly fought: our hand is thine And 'cause thou shalt not murmur that thy blood Was lavish'd forth for an ingrateful man, Demand what we can give thee and 'tis thine.

(_Onaelia beats at the doore_.)

_Onae_. Let me come in! I'le kill that treacherous king, The murderer of mine honour: let me come in!

_King_. What womans voyce is that?

_Omnes_. _Medina's_ Neece.

_King_. Bar out that fiend.

_Onae_. I'le teare him with my nayles! Let me come in, let me come in! helpe, helpe me!

_King_. Keepe her from following me: a gard!

_Alanz_. They are ready, Sir.

_King_. Let a quicke summons call our Lords together; This disease kills me.

_Bal_. Sir, I would be private with you.

_King_. Forbear us, but see the dores well guarded.

[_Exeunt_.

_Bal_. Will you, Sir, promise to give me freedome of speech?

_King_. Yes, I will; take it, speake any thing: 'tis pardoned.

_Bal_. You are a whoremaster: doe you send me to winne Townes for you abroad, and you lose a kingdome at home?

_King_. What kingdome?

_Bal_. The fayrest in the world, the kingdom of your Fame, your honour.

_King_. Wherein?

_Bal_. I'le be plaine with you: much mischiefe is done by the mouth of a Canon, but the fire begins at a little touch-hole: you heard what Nightingale sung to you even now?

_King_. Ha, ha, ha!

_Bal_. Angels err'd but once and fell; but you, Sir, spit in heaven's face every minute and laugh at it. Laugh still and follow your courses; doe; let your vices run like your kennels of hounds yelping after you, till they plucke downe the fayrest head in the heard, everlasting bliss.

_King_. Any more?

_Bal_. Take sinne as the English Snuffe Tobacco, and scornfully blow the smoke in the eyes of heaven; the vapour flyes up in clowds of bravery, but when 'tis out the coal is blacke (your conscience) and the pipe stinkes: a sea of Rose-water cannot sweeten your corrupted bosome.

_King_. Nay, spit thy venome.

_Bal_. 'Tis _Aqua Coelestis_, no venome; for, when you shall claspe up those wo books, never to be open'd againe; when by letting fall that Anchor, which can never more bee weighed up, your mortall Navigation ends: then there's no playing at spurne-point[191] with thunderbolts: a Vintner then for unconscionable reckoning or a Taylor for unreasonable _Items_ shall not answer in halfe that feare you must.

_King_. No more.

_Bal_. I will follow Truth at the heels, tho her foot beat my gums in peeces.

_King_. The Barber that drawes out a Lion's tooth Curseth his Trade; and so shalt thou.

_Bal_. I care not.

_King_. Because you have beaten a few base-borne Moores Me think'st thou to chastise? what's past I pardon, Because I made the key to unlocke thy railing. But if thou dar'st once more be so untun'd, Ile send thee to the Gallies.--Who are without, there? How now?

_Enter Lords drawne_.

_Omnes_. In danger, Sir?

_King_. Yes, yes, I am; but 'tis no point of weapon Can rescue me. Goe presently and summon All our chiefe Grandoes[192], Cardinals and Lords Of _Spaine_ to meet in counsell instantly. We call'd you forth to execute a businesse Of another straine,--but 'tis no matter now. Thou dyest when next thou furrowest up our brow.

_Bal_. Go! dye!
[_Exit_.

_Enter Cardinal, Roderigo, Alba,[193] Dania, Valasco_.

_King_. I find my Scepter shaken by enchantments Charactred in this parchment, which to unloose I'le practise only counter-charmes of fire And blow the spells of lightning into smoake: Fetch burning Tapers. [_Exeunt_.

_Card_. Give me Audience, Sir; My apprehension opens me a way To a close fatall mischiefe worse then this You strive to murder: O this act of yours Alone shall give your dangers life, which else Can never grow to height; doe, Sir, but read A booke here claspt up, which too late you open'd, Now blotted by you with foul marginall notes.

_King_. Art fratricide?

_Car_. You are so, Sir.

_King_. If I be, Then here's my first mad fit.

_Card_. For Honours sake, For love you beare to conscience--

_King_. Reach the flames: Grandoes and Lords of _Spaine_ be witnesse all What here I cancell; read, doe you know this bond?

_Omnes_. Our hands are too't.

_Daen_. 'Tis your confirmed contract With my sad kinswoman: but wherefore, Sir, Now is your rage on fire, in such a presence To have it mourne in ashes?

_King_. Marquesse _Daenia_, Wee'll lend that tongue when this no more can speake.

_Car_. Deare Sir.

_King_. I am deafe, Playd the full consort of the Spheares unto me Vpon their lowdest strings.--Go; burne that witch Who would dry up the tree of all Spaines Glories But that I purge her sorceries by fire: Troy lyes in Cinders; let your Oracles Now laugh at me if I have beene deceiv'd By their ridiculous riddles. Why, good father, (Now you may freely chide) why was your zeale Ready to burst in showres to quench our fury?

_Card_. Fury, indeed; you give it a proper name. What have you done? clos'd up a festering wound Which rots the heart: like a bad Surgeon, Labouring to plucke out from your eye a moate, You thrust the eye clean out.

_King_. Th'art mad _ex tempore_: What eye? which is that wound?

_Car_. That Scrowle, which now You make the blacke Indenture of your lust, Altho eat up in flames, is printed here, In me, in him, in these, in all that saw it, In all that ever did but heare 'twas yours: That scold of the whole world (Fame) will anon Raile with her thousand tongues at this poore Shift Which gives your sinne a flame greater than that You lent the paper; you to quench a wild fire Cast oyle upon it.

_King_. Oyle to blood shall turne; I'le lose a limbe before the heart shall mourne.

[_Exeunt_.

_Manent Daenia, Alba_.

_Daen_. Hee's mad with rage or joy.

_Alb_. With both; with rage To see his follies check'd, with fruitlesse joy Because he hopes his Contract is cut off Which Divine Justice more exemplifies.

_Enter Medina_.

_Med_. Where's the king?

_Daen_. Wrapt up in clouds of lightning.

_Med_. What has he done? saw you the Contract torne, As I did heare a minion sweare he threatened?

_Alb_. He tore it not but burnt it.

_Med_. Openly?

_Daen_. And heaven with us to witnesse.

_Med_. Well, that fire Will prove a catching flame to burne his kingdome.

_Alb_. Meet and consult.

_Med_. No more, trust not the ayre With our projections, let us all revenge Wrongs done to our most noble kinswoman: Action is honours language, swords are tongues, Which both speake best and best do right our wrongs.

[_Exeunt_.

(SCENE 2.)

_Enter Onaelia one way, Cornego another_.

_Cor_. Madam, there's a beare without to speake with you.

_Onae_. A Beare.

_Cor_. Its a Man all hairye and thats as bad.

_Onae_. Who ist?

_Cor_. Tis one Master Captaine _Baltazar_.

_Onae_. I doe not know that _Baltazar_.

_Cor_. He desires to see you; and if you love a water-spaniel before he be shorne, see him.

_Onae_. Let him come in.

_Enter Baltazar_.

_Cor_. Hist; a ducke, a ducke[194]; there she is, Sir.

_Bal_. A Souldiers good wish blesse you, Lady.

_Onae_. Good wishes are most welcome, Sir, to me; So many bad ones blast me.

_Bal_. Doe you not know me?

_Onae_. I scarce know my selfe.

_Bal_. I ha beene at Tennis, Madam, with the king. I gave him 15 and all his faults, which is much, and now I come to tosse a ball with you.

_Onae_. I am bandyed too much up and downe already.

_Cor_. Yes, she has beene strucke under line, master Souldier.

_Bal_. I conceit you: dare you trust your selfe along with me?

_Onae_. I have been laden with such weights of wrong That heavier cannot presse me: hence, _Cornego_.

_Corn_. Hence _Cornego_, stay Captaine! when man and woman are put together some egge of villany is sure to be sate upon. [_Exit_.

_Bal_. What would you say to him should kill this man that hath you so dishonoured?

_Onae_. Oh, I woo'd crowne him With thanks, praise, gold, and tender of my life.

_Bal_. Shall I bee that Germane Fencer[195] and beat all the knocking boyes before me? shall I kill him?

_Onae_. There's musick in the tongue that dares but speak it.

_Bal_. That fiddle then is in me; this arme can doo't by ponyard, poyson, or pistoll; but shall I doo't indeed?

_Onae_. One step to humane blisse is sweet revenge.

_Bal_. Stay; what made you love him?

_Onae_. His most goodly shape Married to royall virtues of his mind.

_Bal_. Yet now you would divorce all that goodnesse; and why? for a little letchery of revenge? it's a lye: the Burre that stickes in your throat is a throane: let him out of his messe of Kingdomes cut out but one, and lay Sicilia, Arragon, Naples or any else upon your trencher, and you'll prayse Bastard[196] for the sweetest wine in the world and call for another quart of it. 'Tis not because the man has left you but because you are not the woman you would be, that mads you: a shee-cuckold is an untameable monster.

_Onae_. Monster of men thou art: thou bloudy villaine, Traytor to him who never injur'd thee, Dost thou professe Armes and art bound in honour To stand up like a brazen wall to guard Thy King and Country, and wood'st thou ruine both?

_Bal_. You spurre me on too't.

_Onae_. True; Worse am I then the horrid'st fiend in hell To murder him whom once I lov'd too well: For tho I could runne mad, and teare my haire, And kill that godlesse man that turn'd me vile; Though I am cheated by a perjurous Prince Who has done wickednesse at which even heaven Shakes when the Sunne beholds it; O yet I'de rather Ten thousand poyson'd ponyards stab'd my brest Then one should touch his: bloudy slave! I'le play My selfe the Hangman and will Butcher thee If thou but prick'st his finger.

_Bal_. Saist thou me so? give me thy goll[197], thou art a noble girle: I did play the Devils part and roare in a feigned voyce, but I am the honestest Devill that ever spet fire. I would not drinke that infernall draught of a kings blood, to goe reeling to damnation, for the weight of the world in Diamonds.

_Onae_. Art thou not counterfeit?

_Bal_. Now, by my skarres, I am not.

_Onae_. I'le call thee honest Souldier, then, and woo thee To be an often Visitant.

_Bal_. Your servant: Yet must I be a stone upon a hill, For tho I doe no good I'le not lye still.

[_Exeunt_.

_Actus Tertius_.

SCAENA PRIMA.

_Enter Malateste and the Queene_.

_Mal_. When first you came from Florence wud the world Had with an universal dire eclipse Bin overwhelm'd, no more to gaze on day, That you to Spaine had never found the way, Here to be lost for ever.

_Queen_. We from one climate Drew suspiration: as thou then hast eyes To read my wrongs, so be thy head an Engine To raise up ponderous mischiefe to the height, And then thy hands the Executioners. A true Italian Spirit is a ball Of Wild-fire, hurting most when it seemes spent; Great ships on small rocks beating oft are rent; And so let Spaine by us. But, _Malateste_, Why from the Presence did you single me Into this Gallery?