Chapter VIII: Part 8

_Mal_. To shew you, Madam, The picture of your selfe, but so defac'd And mangled by proud Spanyards it woo'd whet A sword to arme the poorest Florentine In your just wrongs.

_Queen_. As how? let's see that picture.

_Mal_. Here 'tis then: Time is not scarce foure dayes old Since I and certaine Dons (sharp-witted fellowes And of good ranke) were with two Jesuits (Grave profound Schollers) in deepe argument Of various propositions; at the last Question was mov'd touching your marriage And the Kings precontract.

_Queen_. So; and what followed?

_Mal_. Whether it were a question mov'd by chance Or spitefully of purpose (I being there And your own Country-man) I cannot tell; But when much tossing Had bandyed both the King and you, as pleas'd Those that tooke up the Rackets, in conclusion The Father Jesuits (to whose subtile Musicke Every eare there was tyed) stood with their lives In stiffe defence of this opinion-- Oh, pardon me if I must speake their language.

_Queen_. Say on.

_Mal_. That the most Catholike King in marrying you Keepes you but as his whore.

_Queen_. Are we their Theames?

_Mal_. And that _Medina's_ Neece, _Onaelia_, Is his true wife: her bastard sonne, they said, (The King being dead) should claim and weare the Crowne; And whatsoever children you shall beare To be but bastards in the highest degree, As being begotten in Adultery.

_Queen_. We will not grieve at this, but with hot vengeance Beat down this armed mischiefe. _Malateste_, What whirlewinds can we raise to blow this storme Backe in their faces who thus shoot at me?

_Mal_. If I were fit to be your Counsellor Thus would I speake: feigne that you are with childe,-- The mother of the Maids, and some worne Ladies Who oft have guilty beene to court great bellies, May (tho it be not so) get you with childe With swearing that 'tis true.

_Queen_. Say 'tis beleev'd, Or that it so doth prove.

_Mal_. The joy thereof, Together with these earth-quakes which will shake All Spaine if they their Prince doe dis-inherit, So borne, of such a Queene, being onely daughter To such a brave spirit as the Duke of Florence;-- All this buzz'd into the King, he cannot chuse But charge that all the Bels in Spaine eccho up This joy to heaven; that Bone-fires change the night To a high Noone with beames of sparkling flames; And that in Churches Organs (charm'd with prayers) Speake lowd for your most safe delivery.

_Queen_. What fruits grow out of these?

_Mal_. These; you must sticke (As here and there spring weeds in banks of flowers) Spies amongst the people, who shall lay their eares To every mouth and steale to you their whisperings.

_Queen_. So.

_Mal_. 'Tis a plummet to sound Spanish hearts How deeply they are yours: besides a ghesse Is hereby made of any faction That shall combine against you; which the King seeing, If then he will not rouze him like a Dragon To guard his golden fleece and rid his Harlot And her base bastard hence, either by death Or in some traps of state insnare them both,-- Let his owne ruines crush him.

_Queen_. This goes to tryall; Be thou my Magicke booke, which reading o're Their counterspells wee'll breake; or if the King Will not by strong hand fix me in his Throne But that I must be held Spaines blazing Starre, Be it an ominous charme to call up warre.

[_Exeunt_.

(SCENE 2.)

_Enter Cornego, Onaelia_.

_Corn_. Here's a parcell of mans flesh has beene hanging up and downe all this morning to speake with you.

_Onae_. Is't not some executioner?

_Corn_. I see nothing about him to hang in but's garters.

_Onae_. Sent from the king to warne me of my death: I prethe bid him welcome.

_Cor_. He says he is a Poet.

_Onae_. Then bid him better welcome: Belike he's come to write my Epitaph,-- Some[198] scurvy thing, I warrant: welcome, Sir.

_Enter Poet_.

_Poet_. Madam[199], my love presents this book unto you.

_Onae_. To me? I am not worthy of a line, Vnlesse at that line hang some hooke to choake me. 'To the most honoured Lady--_Onaelia_' Fellow, thou lyest, I'me most dishonoured: Thou shouldst have writ 'To the most wronged Lady': The Title of this booke is not to me; I teare it therefore as mine Honour's torne.

_Cor_. Your Verses are lam'd in some of their feet, Master Poet.

_Onae_. What does it treate of?

_Poet_. Of the sollemne Triumphs Set forth at Coronation of the Queene.

_Onae_. Hissing (the Poets whirle-wind) blast thy lines! Com'st thou to mocke my Tortures with her Triumphs?

_Poet_. 'Las, Madam!

_Onae_. When her funerals are past Crowne thou a Dedication to my joyes, And thou shalt sweare each line a golden verse. --_Cornego_, burne this Idoll.

_Cor_. Your booke shall come to light, Sir.
[_Exit_.

_Onae_. I have read legends of disastrous Dames: Will none set pen to paper for poore me? Canst write a bitter Satyre? brainlesse people Doe call 'em Libels: dar'st thou write a Libell?

_Poet_. I dare mix gall and poyson with my Inke.

_Onae_. Doe it then for me.

_Poet_. And every line must be A whip to draw blood.

_Onae_. Better.

_Poet_. And to dare The stab from him it touches. He that writes Such Libels (as you call 'em) must lance[200] wide The sores of mens corruptions, and even search To'th quicke for dead flesh or for rotten cores: A Poets Inke can better cure some sores Then Surgeons Balsum.

_Onae_. Vndertake that Cure And crowne thy verse with Bayes.

_Poet_. Madam, I'le doo't; But I must have the parties Character.

_Onae_. The king.

_Poet_. I doe not love to pluck the quils With which I make pens, out of a Lions claw. The King! shoo'd I be bitter 'gainst the king I shall have scurvy ballads made of me Sung to the Hanging Tune[201]. I dare not, Madam.

_Onae_. This basenesse follows your profession: You are like common Beadles, apt to lash Almost to death poore wretches not worth striking, But fawne with slavish flattery on damn'd vices, So great men act them: you clap hands at those, Where the true Poet indeed doth scorne to guild A gawdy Tombe with glory of his Verse Which coffins stinking Carrion; no, his lines Are free as his Invention; no base feare Can shape his penne to Temporize even with Kings; The blacker are their crimes he lowder sings. Goe, goe, thou canst not write; 'tis but my calling The Muses helpe, that I may be inspir'd. Cannot a woman be a Poet, Sir?

_Poet_. Yes, Madam, best of all; for Poesie Is but a feigning; feigning is to lye, And women practise lying more than men.

_Onae_. Nay, but if I shoo'd write I woo'd tell truth: How might I reach a lofty straine?

_Poet_. Thus, Madam: Bookes, Musick, Wine, brave Company and good Cheere Make Poets to soare high and sing most cleare.

_Onae_. Are they borne Poets?

_Poet_. Yes.

_Onae_. Dye they?

_Poet_. Oh, never dye.

_Onae_. My misery is then a Poet sure, For time has given it an Eternity.-- What sorts of Poets are there?

_Poet_. Two sorts, Lady; The great Poets and the small Poets.

_Onae_. Great and small! Which doe you call the great? the fat ones?

_Poet_. No, but such as have great heads, which, emptied forth, Fill all the world with wonder at their lines-- Fellowes which swell big with the wind of praise: The small ones are but shrimpes of Poesie.

_Onae_. Which in the kingdome now is the best Poet?

_Poet_. Emulation.

_Onae_. Which the next?

_Poet_. Necessity.

_Onae_. And which the worst?

_Poet_. Selfe-love.

_Onae_. Say I turne Poet, what should I get?

_Poet_. Opinion.

_Onae_. 'Las I have got too much of that already. Opinion is my Evidence, Judge and Jury; Mine owne guilt and opinion now condemne me. I'le therefore be no Poet; no, nor make Ten Muses of your nine, I sweare, for this; Verses, tho freely borne, like slaves are sold; I Crowne thy lines with Bayes, thy love with gold: So fare thou well.

_Poet_. Our pen shall honour you.
[_Exit_.

_Enter Cornego_.

_Cor_. The Poets booke, Madam, has got the Inflammation of the Livor, it dyed of a burning Feaver.

_Onae_. What shall I doe, _Cornego_? for this Poet Has fill'd me with a fury: I could write Strange Satyrs now against Adulterers And Marriage-breakers.

_Cor_. I beleeve you, Madam.--But here comes your Vncle.

_Enter Medina, Alanzo, Carlo, Alba, Sebastian, Daenia_.

_Med_. Where's our Neece? Turne your braines round and recollect your spirits, And see your Noble friends and kinsmen ready To pay revenge his due.

_Onae_. That word Revenge Startles my sleepy Soule, now thoroughly wakend By the fresh object of my haplesse childe Whose wrongs reach beyond mine.

_Seb_. How doth my sweet mother?

_Onae_. How doth my prettiest boy?

_Alanz_. Wrongs, like greate whirlewinds, Shake highest Battlements? few for heaven woo'd care Shoo'd they be ever happy; they are halfe gods Who both in good dayes and good fortune share.

_Onae_. I have no part in either.

_Carl_. You shall in both, Can Swords but cut the way.

_Onae_. I care not much, so you but gently strike him, And that my Child escape the light[e]ning.

_Med_. For that our Nerves are knit: is there not here A promising face of manly princely vertues? And shall so sweet a plant be rooted out By him that ought to fix it fast i'the ground? _Sebastian_, What will you doe to him that hurts your mother?

_Seb_. The King my father shall kill him, I trow.

_Daen_. But, sweet Coozen, the King loves not your mother.

_Seb_. I'le make him love her when I am a King.

_Med_. La you, there's in him a Kings heart already. As, therefore, we before together vow'd, Lay all your warlike hands upon my Sword And sweare.

_Seb_. Will you sweare to kill me, Vncle?

_Med_. Oh, not for twenty worlds.

_Seb_. Nay, then, draw and spare not, for I love fighting.

_Med_. Stand in the midst, sweet Cooz; we are your guard; These Hammers shall for thee beat out a Crowne, If hit all right. Sweare therefore, noble friends By your high bloods, by true Nobility, By what you owe Religion, owe to your Country, Owe to the raising your posterity; By love you beare to vertue and to Armes (The shield of Innocence) sweare not to sheath Your Swords, when once drawne forth--

_Onae_. Oh, not to kill him For twenty thousand worlds!

_Med_. Will you be quiet?-- Your Swords, when once drawne forth, till they ha forc'd Yon godlesse, perjurous, perfidious man--

_Onae_. Pray raile not at him so.

_Med_. Art mad? y'are idle:--till they ha forc'd him To cancell his late lawlesse bond he seal'd At the high Altar to his Florentine Strumpet, And in his bed lay this his troth-plight wife.

_Onae_. I, I, that's well; pray sweare.

_Omnes_. To this we sweare.

_Seb_. Vncle, I sweare too.

_Med_. Our forces let's unite; be bold and secret, And Lion-like with open eyes let's sleepe: Streames smooth and slowly running are most deep. [_Exeunt_.

(SCENE 3.)

_Enter King; Queen, Malateste, Valesco, Lopez_.

_King_. The Presence doore be guarded; let none enter On forfeit of your lives without our knowledge. Oh, you are false physitians all unto me, You bring me poyson but no antidotes.

_Queen_. Your selfe that poyson brewes.

_King_. Prethe, no more.

_Queen_. I will, I must speake more.

_King_. Thunder aloud.

_Queen_. My child, yet newly quickened in my wombe, Is blasted with the fires of Bastardy.

_King_. Who? who dares once but thinke so in his dreame?

_Mal_. _Medina's_ faction preached it openly.

_King_. Be curst he and his Faction: oh, how I labour For these preventions! but, so crosse is Fate, My ills are ne're hid from me but their Cures. What's to be done?

_Queen_. That which being left undone, Your life lyes at the stake: let 'em be breathlesse, Both brat and mother.

_King_. Ha!

_Mal_. She playes true Musicke, Sir: The mischiefes you are drench'd in are so full You need not feare to add to 'em; since now No way is left to guard thy rest secure But by a meanes like this.

_Lop_. All Spaine rings forth _Medina's_ name and his Confederates.

_Rod_. All his Allyes and friends rush into troopes Like raging Torrents.

_Val_. And lowd Trumpet forth Your perjuries; seducing the wild people And with rebellious faces threatning all.

_King_. I shall be massacred in this their spleene E're I have time to guard my selfe; I feele The fire already falling: where's our guard?

_Mal_. Planted at Garden gate, with a strict charge That none shall enter but by your command.

_King_. Let 'em be doubled: I am full of thoughts, A thousand wheeles tosse my incertaine feares; There is a storme in my hot boyling braines Which rises without wind; a horrid one. What clamor's that?

_Queen_. Some treason: guard the King!

_Enter Baltazar drawne; one of the Guard fals_.

_Bal_. Not in?

_Mal_. One of your guard's slaine: keepe off the murderer!

_Bal_. I am none, Sir.

_Val_. There's a man drop'd down by thee.

_King_. Thou desperate fellow, thus presse in upon us! Is murder all the story we shall read? What King can stand when thus his subjects bleed! What hast thou done?

_Bal_. No hurt.

_King_. Plaid even the Wolfe And from a fold committed to my charge Stolne and devour'd one of the flocke.

_Bal_. Y'ave sheepe enow for all that, Sir; I have kill'd none tho; or, if I have, mine owne blood shed in your quarrels may begge my pardon; my businesse was in haste to you.

_King_. I woo'd not have thy sinne scoar'd on my head For all the Indian Treasury. I prethee tell me, Suppose thou hast our pardon, O, can that cure Thy wounded conscience? can there my pardon helpe thee? Yet, having deserv'd well both of Spaine and us, We will not pay thy worth with losse of life, But banish thee for ever.

_Bal_. For a Groomes death?

_King_. No more; we banish thee our Court and kingdome: A King that fosters men so dipt in blood May be call'd mercifull but never good: Begone upon thy life.

_Bal_. Well: farewell. [_Exit_.

_Val_. The fellow is not dead but wounded, Sir.

_Queen_. After him, _Malateste_; in our lodging Stay that rough fellow; hee's the man shall doo't: Haste, or my hopes are lost. [_Exit Mal_. Why are you sad, Sir?

_King_. For thee, _Paullina_, swell my troubled thoughts, Like billowes beaten by too (two?) warring winds.

_Queen_. Be you but rul'd by me, I'le make a calme Smooth as the brest of heaven.

_King_. Instruct me how.

_Queen_. You (as your fortunes tye you) are inclin'd To have the blow given.

_King_. Where's the Instrument?

_Queen_. 'Tis found in _Baltazar_.

_King_. Hee's banished.

_Queen_. True, But staid by me for this.

_King_. His spirit is hot And rugged, but so honest that his soule Will ne're turn devill to do it.

_Queen_. Put it to tryall: Retire a little: hither I'le send for him, Offer repeale and favours if he doe it; But if deny, you have no finger in't, And then his doome of banishment stands good.

_King_. Be happy in thy workings; I obey. [_Exit_.

_Queen_. Stay, _Lopez_.

_Lop_. Madam.

_Queen_. Step to our Lodging, _Lopez_, And instantly bid _Malateste_ bring The banish'd _Baltazar_ to us.

_Lop_. I shall. [_Exit_.

_Queen_. Thrive my blacke plots; the mischiefes I have set Must not so dye; Ills must new Ills beget.

_Enter Malateste and Baltazar_.

_Bal_. Now! what hot poyson'd Custard must I put my Spoone into now?

_Queen_. None, for mine honour now is thy protection.

_Mal_. Which, Noble Souldier, she will pawn for thee But never forfeit.

_Bal_. 'Tis a faire gage; keepe it.

_Queen_. Oh, _Baltazar_, I am thy friend, and mark'd thee When the King sentenc'd thee to banishment: Fire sparkled from thine eyes of rage and griefe; Rage to be doom'd so for a Groome so base, And griefe to lose thy country. Thou hast kill'd none: The Milke-sop is but wounded, thou art not banish'd.

_Bal_. If I were I lose nothing; I can make any Countrey mine. I have a private Coat for _Italian_ Steeletto's, I can be treacherous with the _Wallowne_, drunke with the _Dutch_, a Chimney-sweeper with the _Irish_, a Gentleman with the _Welsh_[202] and turne arrant theefe with the _English_: what then is my Country to me?

_Queen_. The King, who (rap'd with fury) banish'd thee, Shall give thee favours, yeeld but to destroy What him distempers.

_Bal_. So; and what's the dish I must dresse?

_Queen_. Onely the cutting off a paire of lives.

_Bal_. I love no Red-wine healths.

_Mal_. The King commands it; you are but Executioner.

_Bal_. The Hang-man? An office that will hold as long as hempe lasts: why doe not you begge the office, Sir?

_Queen_. Thy victories in field shall never crowne thee As this one Act shall.

_Bal_. Prove but that, 'tis done.

_Queen_. Follow him close; hee's yeelding.

_Mal_. Thou shalt be call'd thy Countries Patriot For quenching out a fire now newly kindling In factious bosomes; and shalt thereby save More Noble Spanyards lives than thou slew'st Moores.

_Queen_. Art thou not yet converted?

_Bal_. No point.

_Queen_. Read me then: _Medina's_ Neece, by a contract from the King, Layes clayme to all that's mine, my Crowne, my bed; A sonne she has by him must fill the Throne If her great faction can but worke that wonder. Now heare me--

_Bal_. I doe with gaping eares.

_Queen_. I swell with hopefull issue to the King.

_Bal_. A brave Don call you mother.

_Mal_. Of this danger The feare afflicts the King.

_Bal_. Cannot much blame him.

_Queen_. If therefore by the riddance of this Dame--

_Bal_. Riddance? oh! the meaning on't is murder.

_Mal_. Stab her or so, that's all.

_Queen_. That Spaine be free from frights, the King from feares, And I, now held his Infamy, be called Queene; The Treasure of the kingdome shall lye open To pay thy Noble darings.

_Bal_. Come, Ile doo't, provided I heare _Jove_ call to me tho he rores; I must have the King's hand to this warrant, else I dare not serve it upon my Conscience.

_Queen_. Be firme, then; behold the King is come.

_Enter King_.

_Bal_. Acquaint him.

_Queen_. I found the metal hard, but with oft beating Hees now so softened he shall take impression From any seale you give him.

_King_. _Baltazar_, Come hither, listen; whatsoe're our Queene Has importun'd thee to, touching _Onaelia_ (Neece to the Constable) and her young sonne, My voyce shall second it and signe her promise.

_Bal_. Their riddance?

_King_. That.

_Bal_. What way? by poyson?

_King_. So.

_Bal_. Starving, or strangling, stabbing, smothering?

_Queen_. Good.

_King_. Any way, so 'tis done.

_Bal_. But I will have, Sir, This under your owne hand; that you desire it, You plot it, set me on too't.

_King_. Penne, Inke and paper.

_Bal_. And then as large a pardon as law and wit Can engrosse for me.

_King_. Thou shalt ha my pardon.

_Bal_. A word more, Sir; pray will you tell me one thing?

_King_. Yes, any thing, deare _Baltazar_.

_Bal_. Suppose I have your strongest pardon, can that cure my wounded Conscience? can there your pardon help me? You not onely knocke the Ewe a'th head, but cut the Innocent Lambes throat too: yet you are no Butcher!

_Queen_. Is this thy promis'd yeelding to an Act So wholesome for thy Country?

_King_. Chide him not.

_Bal_. I woo'd not have this sinne scor'd on my head For all the Indaean Treasury.

_King_. That song no more: Doe this and I will make thee a great man.

_Bal_. Is there no farther trick in't, but my blow, your purse, and my pardon?

_Mal_. No nets upon my life to entrap thee.

_Bal_. Then trust me, these knuckles worke it.

_King_. Farewell, be confident and sudden.

_Bal_. Yes; Subjects may stumble when Kings walk astray: Thine Acts shall be a new Apocrypha.

[_Exeunt_.

_Actus Quartus_.

SCAENA PRIMA.

_Enter Medina, Alba and Daenia, met by Baltazar
with a Ponyard and a Pistoll_.

_Bal_. You meet a _Hydra_; see, if one head failes; Another with a sulphurous beake stands yawning.

_Med_. What hath rais'd up this Devill?

_Bal_. A great mans vices, that can raise all hell. What woo'd you call that man, who under-saile In a most goodly ship wherein he ventures His life, fortunes and honours, yet in a fury Should hew the Mast downe, cast Sayles over-boord, Fire all the Tacklings, and to crowne this madnesse Shoo'd blow up all the Deckes, burne th'oaken ribbes And in that Combat 'twixt two Elements Leape desperately and drowne himselfe i'th Seas,-- What were so brave a fellow?

_Omnes_. A brave blacke villaine.

_Bal_. That's I; all that brave blacke villaine dwels in me, If I be that blacke villaine; but I am not: A Nobler Character prints out my brow, Which you may thus read: I was banish'd Spaine For emptying a Court-Hogshead, but repeal'd So I woo'd (e're my reeking Iron was cold) Promise to give it a deepe crimson dye In--none heare?--stay--no, none heare.

_Med_. Whom then?

_Bal_. Basely to stab a woman, your wrong'd Neece, And her most innocent sonne _Sebastian_.

_Alb_. The Boare now foames with whetting.

_Daen_. What has blunted Thy weapons point at these?

_Bal_. My honesty, A signe at which few dwell, pure honesty. I am a vassaile to _Medina's_ house; He taught me first the A, B, C of warre[203] E're I was Truncheon-high I had the stile Of beardlesse Captaine, writing then but boy: And shall I now turne slave to him that fed me With Cannon-bullets, and taught me, Estridge[204]-like, To digest Iron and Steele? no: yet I yeelded With willow-bendings to commanding breaths.

_Med_. Of whom?

_Bal_. Of King and Queene: with supple Hams And an ill-boading looke I vow'd to doo't; Yet, lest some choake-peare[205] of State-policy Shoo'd stop my throat and spoyle my drinking-pipe, See (like his cloake) I hung at the Kings elbow Till I had got his hand to signe my life.

_Daen_. Shall we see this and sleepe?

_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_.

_Omnes_. Good.

_Med_. Dispatch then; be quicke.

_Bal_. As Lightning. [_Exit_.

_Alb_. This fellow is some Angell drop'd from heaven To preserve Innocence.

_Med_. He is a wheele Of swift and turbulent motion; I have trusted him, Yet will not hang on him to many plummets Lest with a headlong Cyre (Gyre?) he ruines all. In these State-consternations, when a kingdome Stands tottering at the Center, out of suspition Safety growes often. Let us suspect this fellow; And that, albeit he shew us the Kings hand, It may be but a tricke.

_Daen_. Your Lordship hits A poyson'd nayle i'th head: this waxen fellow (By the Kings hand so bribing him with gold) Is set on skrews, perhaps is made his Creature To turne round every way.

_Med_. Out of that feare Will I beget truth; for my selfe in person Will sound the Kings brest.

_Carl_. How! your selfe in person.

_Alb_. That's half the prize he gapes for.

_Med_. I'le venture it, And come off well, I warrant you, and rip up His very entrailes, cut in two his heart And search each corner in't; yet shall not he Know who it is cuts up th'Anatomy.

_Daen_. 'Tis an exploit worth wonder.

_Carl_. Put the worst; Say some Infernall voyce shoo'd rore from hell The Infant's cloystering up.

_Alb_. 'Tis not our danger Nor the imprison'd Prince's, for what Theefe Dares by base sacrilege rob the Church of him?

_Carl_. At worst none can be lost but this slight fellow.

_Med_. All build on this as on a stable Cube: If we our footing keepe we fetch him forth And Crowne him King; if up we fly i'th ayre We for his soules health a broad way prepare.

_Daen_. They come.

_Enter Baltazar and Sebastian_.

_Med_. Thou knowest where To bestow him, _Baltazar_.

_Bal_. Come Noble[206] Boy.

_Alb_. Hide him from being discovered.

_Bal_. Discover'd? woo'd there stood a troope of Moores Thrusting the pawes of hungry Lions forth To seize this prey, and this but in my hand; I should doe something.

_Seb_. Must I goe with this blacke fellow, Vncle?

_Med_. Yes, pretty Coz; hence with him, _Baltazar_.

_Bal_. Sweet child, within few minutes I'le change thy fate And take thee hence, but set thee at heavens gate. [_Exeunt Bal. and Seb_.

_Med_. Some keepe aloof and watch this Souldier.

_Carl_. I'le doo't.

_Daen_. What's to be done now?

_Med_. First to plant strong guard About the mother, then into some snare To hunt this spotted Panther and there kill him.

_Daen_. What snares have we can hold him?

_Med_. Be that care mine: Dangers (like Starres) in darke attempts best shine.

[_Exeunt_.

(SCENE 2.)

_Enter Cornego, Baltazar_.

_Cor_. The Lady Onaelia dresseth the stead[207] of her commendations in the most Courtly Attire that words can be cloth'd with, from her selfe to you by me.

_Bal_. So, Sir; and what disease troubles her now?

_Cor_. The King's Evill; and here she hath sent something to you wrap'd up in a white sheet; you need not feare to open it, 'tis no coarse.

_Bal_. What's here? a letter minc'd into five morsels? What was she doing when thou camest from her?

_Cor_. At the pricke-song[208].

_Bal_. So methinks, for here's nothing but sol-Re-fa-mi. What Crochet fils her head now, canst tell?

_Cor_. No Crochets, 'tis onely the Cliffe has made her mad.

_Bal_. What instrument playd she upon?

_Cor_. A wind instrument, she did nothing but sigh.

_Bal_. Sol, Ra, me, Fa, Mi.

_Cor_. My wit has alwayes had a singing head; I have found out her Note, Captaine.

_Bal_. The tune? come.

_Cor_. Sol, my soule; re, is all rent and torne like a raggamuffin; me, mend it, good Captaine; fa, fa,--whats fa, Captaine?

_Bal_. Fa? why, farewell and be hang'd.

_Cor_. Mi, Captaine, with all my heart. Have I tickled my Ladies Fiddle well?

_Bal_. Oh, but your sticke wants Rozen to make the string sound clearely. No, this double Virginall being cunningly touch'd, another manner of Jacke[209] leaps up then is now in mine eye. Sol, Re, me, fa, mi--I have it now; _Solus Rex me facit miseram_. Alas, poore Lady! tell her no Pothecary in Spaine has any of that _Assa Fetida_ she writes for.

_Cor_. _Assa Fetida_? what's that?

_Bal_. A thing to be taken in a glister-pipe?

_Cor_. Why, what ayles my Lady?

_Bal_. What ayles she? why, when she cryes out _Solus Rex me facit miseram_, she sayes in the Hypocronicall language that she is so miserably tormented with the wind-Chollicke that it rackes her very soule.

_Cor_. I said somewhat cut her soule in pieces.

_Bal_. But goe to her and say the oven is heating.

_Cor_. And what shall be bak'd in't?

_Bal_. Carpe pies, and besides tell her the hole in her Coat shall be mended; and tell her if the Dyall of good dayes goe true, why then bounce Buckrum.

_Cor_. The Divell lyes sicke of the Mulligrubs.

_Bal_. Or the Cony is dub'd, and three sheepskins--

_Cor_. With the wrong side outward.

_Bal_. Shall make the Fox a Night-cap.

_Cor_. So the Goose talkes French to the Buzzard.

_Bal_. But, Sir, if evill dayes justle our prognostication to the wall, then say there's a fire in the whore-masters Cod-peece.

_Cor_. And a poyson'd Bagge-pudding in Tom Thumbes belly.

_Bal_. The first cut be thine: farewell!

_Cor_. Is this all?

_Bal_. Woo't not trust an Almanacke?

_Cor_. Nor a Coranta[210] neither, tho it were seal'd with Butter; and yet I know where they both lye passing well.

_Enter Lopez_.

_Lop_. The King sends round about the Court to seek you.

_Bal_. Away, Otterhound.

_Cor_. Dancing Beare, I'me gone. [_Exit_.

_Enter King attended_.

_King_. A private roome.-- [_Exeunt Omnes_. Is't done? hast drawne thy two edg'd sword out yet?

_Bal_. No, I was striking at the two Iron Barres that hinder your passage; and see, Sir. [_Drawes_.

_King_. What meanst thou?

_Bal_. The edge abated? feele.

_King_. No, no, I see it.

_Bal_. As blunt as Ignorance.

_King_. How? put up--So--how?

_Bal_. I saw by chance, hanging in Cardinall _Alvarez_ Gallery, a picture of hell.

_King_. So; what of that?

_Bal_. There lay upon burnt straw ten thousand brave fellowes, all starke naked, some leaning upon Crownes, some on Miters, some on bags of gold; Glory in another Corner lay like a feather beaten in the raine; Beauty was turn'd into a watching Candle that went out stinking; Ambition went upon a huge high paire of stilts but horribly rotten; some in another nooke were killing Kings, and some having their elbowes shov'd forward by Kings to murther others: I was (methought) halfe in hell my selfe whilst I stood to view this peece.

_King_. Was this all?

_Bal_. Was't not enough to see that? a man is more healthfull that eats dirty puddings than he that feeds on a corrupted Conscience.

_King_. Conscience! what's that? a Conjuring booke ne're open'd Without the readers danger: 'tis indeed A scare-crow set i'th world to fright weake fooles. Hast thou seene fields pav'd o're with carkasses Now to be tender-footed, not to tread On a boyes mangled quarters and a womans?

_Bal_. Nay, Sir, I have search'd the records of the Low-Countries and finde that by your pardon I need not care a pinne for Goblins; and therefore I will doo't, Sir: I did but recoyle because I was double charg'd.

_King_. No more; here comes a Satyre with sharpe hornes.

_Enter Cardinall, and Medina like a French Doctor_.

_Car_. Sir, here's a Frenchman charg'd with some strange businesse Which to your close eare onely hee'll deliver, Or else to none.

_King_. A Frenchman?

_Med_. We, Mounsire.

_King_. Cannot he speake the Spanish?

_Med_. Si Signior, vr Poco:--Monsir, Acoutez in de Corner; me come for offer to your Bon gace mi trez humble service. By gar no John fidleco shall put into your neare braver Melody dan dis vn petite pipe shall play upon to your great bon Grace.

_King_. What is the tune you'll strike up? touch the string.

_Med_. Dis; me ha run up and downe mane Countrie and learne many fine ting and mush knavery; now more and all dis me know you ha jumbla de fine vench and fill her belly wid a Garsoone: her name is le Madame--

_King_. _Onaelia_.

_Med_. She by gar: Now, Monsire, dis Madam send for me to helpe her Malady, being very naught of her corpes (her body). Me know you no point love a dis vensh; but, royall Monsire, donne Moy ten towsand French Crownes, she shall kicke up her taile, by gar, and beshide lye dead as dog in the shannell.

_King_. Speake low.

_Med_. As de bagge-pipe when the winde is puff, Garbeigh.

_King_. Thou nam'st ten thousand Crownes; I'le treble them, Rid me but of this leprosie: thy name?

_Med_. Monsire Doctor _Devile_.

_King_. Shall I a second wheele adde to this mischiefe To set it faster going? if one breake, Th'other may keepe his motion.

_Med_. Esselent fort boone.

_King_. _Baltazar_, To give thy Sword an edge againe, this Frenchman Shall whet thee on, that if thy pistoll faile, Or ponyard, this can send the poyson home.

_Bal_. Brother _Cain_, wee'll shake hands.

_Med_. In de bowle of de bloody busher: tis very fine wholesome.

_King_. And more to arme your resolution, I'le tune this Churchman so that he shall chime In sounds harmonious. Merit to that man Whose hand has but a finger in that act.

_Bal_. That musicke were worth hearing.

_King_. Holy Father, You must give pardon to me in unlocking A Cave stuft full with Serpents which my State Threaten to poyson; and it lyes in you To breake their bed with thunder of your voyce.

_Car_. How, princely sonne?

_King_. Suppose an universall Hot Pestilence beat her mortiferous wings Ore all my Kingdome, am I not bound in soule To empty all our Achademes of Doctors And Aesculapian Spirits to charme this plague?

_Car_. You are.

_King_. Or had the Canon made a breach Into our rich Escuriall, down to beat it About our eares, shoo'd I to stop this breach Spare even our richest Ornaments, nay our Crowne, Could it keepe bullets off?

_Car_. No, Sir, you should not.

_King_. This Linstocke[211] gives you fire: shall then that strumpet And bastard breathe quicke vengeance in my face, Making my kingdome reele, my subjects stagger In their obedience, and yet live?

_Car_. How? live! Shed not their bloods to gaine a kingdome greater Then ten times this.

_Med_. Pishe, not mattera how Red-cap and his wit run.

_King_. As I am Catholike King I'le have their hearts Panting in these two hands.

_Car_. Dare you turne Hang-man? Is this Religion Catholicke, to kill, What even bruit beasts abhorre to doe, your owne! To cut in sunder wedlockes sacred knot Tyed by heavens fingers! to make Spaine a Bonfire To quench which must a second Deluge raine In showres of blood, no water! If you doe this There is an Arme Armipotent that can fling you Into a base grave, and your Pallaces With Lightning strike and of their Ruines make A Tombe for you, unpitied and abhorr'd. Beare witnesse, all you Lamps Coelestiall, I wash my hands of this. (_Kneeling_.)

_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_)

_Bal_. The perfection of all Spanyards; Mars in little; the best booke of the art of Warre printed in these Times: as a French Doctor I woo'd have given you pellets for pills, but as my noblest Lord rip my heart out in your service.

_Med_. Thou art the truest Clocke That e're to time paidst tribute, honest Souldier. I lost mine owne shape and put on a French Onely to try thy truth and the kings falshood, Both which I find. Now this great Spanish volume Is open'd to me, I read him o're and o're, Oh what blacke Characters are printed in him!

_Car_. Nothing but certaine ruine threat your Neece, Without prevention; well this plot was laid In such disguise to sound him; they that know How to meet dangers are the lesse afraid: Yet let me counsell you not to text downe These wrongs in red lines.

_Med_. No, I will not, father: Now that I have Anatomiz'd his thoughts I'le read a lecture on 'em that shall save Many mens lives, and to the kingdome Minister Most wholesome Surgery: here's our Aphorisme,[213]-- These letters from us in our Neeces name, You know, treat of a marriage.

_Car_. There's the strong Anchor To stay all in this tempest.

_Med_. Holy Sir, With these worke you the King and so prevaile That all these mischiefes _Hull_ with Flagging saile.

_Car_. My best in this I'le doe.

_Med_. Souldier, thy brest I must locke better things in.

_Bal_. Tis your chest with 3 good keyes to keep it from opening, an honest hart, a daring hand and a pocket which scornes money.

[_Exeunt_.

_Actus Quintus_.

SCAENA PRIMA.

_Enter King, Cardinall with letters_, [_Valasco and Lopez_.]

_King_. Commend us to _Medina_, say his letters Right pleasing are, and that (except himselfe) Nothing could be more welcome: counsell him (To blot the opinion out of factious numbers) Onely to have his ordinary traine Waiting upon him; for, to quit all feares Vpon his side of us, our very Court Shall even but dimly shine with some few Dons, Freely to prove our longings great to peace.

_Car_. The Constable expects some pawne from you That in this Fairy circle shall rise up No Fury to confound his Neece nor him.

_King_. A King's word is engag'd.

_Car_. It shall be taken. [_Exit_.

_King_. _Valasco_, call the Captaine of our Guard, Bid him attend us instantly.

_Val_. I shall. [_Exit_.

_King_. _Lopez_, come hither: see Letters from _Duke Medina_, both in the name Of him and all his Faction, offering peace, And our old love (his Neece) _Onaelia_ In Marriage with her free and faire consent To _Cockadillio_, a Don of Spaine.

_Lop_. Will you refuse this?

_King_. My Crowne as soone: they feele their sinowy plots Belike to shrinke i'th joynts, and fearing Ruine Have found this Cement out to piece up all, Which more endangers all.

_Lop_. How, Sir! endangers?

_King_. Lyons may hunted be into the snare, But if they once breake loose woe be to him That first seiz'd on 'em. A poore prisoner scornes To kisse his Jaylor; and shall a King be choak'd With sweete-meats by false Traytors! no, I will fawne On them as they stroake me, till they are fast But in this paw, and then--

_Lop_. A brave revenge.-- The Captaine of your Guard.

_Enter Captaine_.

_King_. Vpon thy life Double our Guard this day, let every man Beare a charg'd Pistoll hid; and at a watch-word Given by a Musket, when our selfe sees Time, Rush in; and if _Medina's_ Faction wrastle Against your forces, kill; but if yeeld, save. Be secret.

_Alanz_. I am charm'd, Sir.
[_Exit_.

_King_. Watch, _Valasco_; If any weare a Crosse, Feather or Glove Or such prodigious signes of a knit Faction, Table their names up; at our Court-gate plant Good strength to barre them out if once they swarme: Doe this upon thy life.

_Val_. Not death shall fright me.

[_Exeunt Valasco and Lopez_.

_Enter Baltazar_.

_Bal_. 'Tis done, Sir.

_King_. Death! what's done?

_Bal_. Young Cub's flayd, But the shee-fox shifting her hole is fled; The little Iackanapes the boy's braind.

_King_. _Sebastian_?

_Bal_. He shall ne're speake more Spanish.

_King_. Thou teachest me to curse thee.

_Bal_. For a bargaine you set your hand to?

_King_. Halfe my Crowne I'de lose were it undone.

_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_.

_Bal_. Sinne is a Raven croaking[214] her owne fall.
[_Exit_.

(SCENE 2.)

_Enter Medina, Daenia, Alba, Carlo and the Faction,
with Rosemary in their hats_.

_Med_. Keepe lock'd the doore and let none enter to us But who shares in our fortunes.

_Daen_. Locke the dores.

_Alb_. What entertainment did the King bestow Vpon your letters and the Cardinals?

_Med_. With a devouring eye he read 'em o're Swallowing our offers into his empty bosome As gladly as the parched earth drinks healths Out of the cup of heaven.

_Carl_. Little suspecting What dangers closely lye enambushed.

_Daen_. Let not us trust to that; there's in his brest Both Fox and Lion, and both those beasts can bite: We must not now behold the narrowest loope-hole But presently suspect a winged bullet Flyes whizzing by our eares.

_Med_. For when I let The plummet fall to sound his very soule In his close-chamber, being French-Doctor-like, He to the Cardinals eare sung sorcerous notes; The burthen of his song to mine was death, _Onaelia's_ murder and _Sebastians_. And thinke you his voyce alters now? 'Tis strange To see how brave this Tyrant shewes in Court, Throan'd like a god: great men are petty starres Where his rayes shine; wonder fills up all eyes By sight of him: let him but once checke sinne, About him round all cry "oh excellent king! Oh Saint-like man!" but let this King retire Into his Closet to put off his robes, He like a Player leaves his parte off, too: Open his brest and with a Sunne-beame search it, There's no such man; this King of gilded clay Within is uglinesse, lust, treachery, And a base soule tho reard Colossus-high.

(_Baltazar beats to come in_.)

_Daen_. None till he speakes and that we know his voyce: Who are you?

_Within Bal_. An honest house-keeper in Rosemary-lane, too, If you dwell in the same parish.

_Med_. Oh 'tis our honest Souldier, give him entrance.

_Enter Baltazar_.

_Bal_. Men show like coarses[215] for I meet few but are stuck with Rosemary: everyone ask'd mee who was married to-day, and I told 'em Adultery and Repentance, and that shame and a Hangman followed 'em to Church.

_Med_. There's but two parts to play: shame has done hers But execution must close up the Scaene, And for that cause these sprigs are worne by all, Badges of Mariage, now of Funerall, For death this day turns Courtier.

_Bal_. Who must dance with him?

_Med_. The King, and all that are our opposites; That dart or this must flye into the Court, Either to shoote this blazing starre from Spaine Or else so long to wrap him up in clouds Till all the fatall fires in him burne out, Leaving his State and conscience cleere from doubt Of following uprores.

_Alb_. Kill not but surprize him.

_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.

_Bal_. No? more no's? I know him, let him enter.

_Med_. Signeor, I thanke your kind Intelligence. The newes long since was sent into our eares, Yet we embrace your love; so fare you well.

_Carl_. Will you smell to a sprig of Rosemary?

_No_. No.

_Bal_. Will you be hang'd?

_No_. No.

_Bal_. This is either Signeor No, or no Signeor.

_Med_. He makes his love to us a warning-peece To arme our selves against we come to Court, Because the guard is doubled.

_Omnes_. Tush, we care not.

_Bal_. If any here armes his hand to cut off the head, let him first plucke out my throat. In any Noble Act Ile wade chin-deepe with you: but to kill a King!

_Med_. No, heare me--

_Bal_. You were better, my Lord, saile 500 times to _Bantam_[217] in the West-Indies than once to _Barathrum_ in the Low-Countries. It's hot going under the line there; the Callenture of the soule is a most miserable madnesse.

_Med_. Turne, then, this wheele of Fate from shedding blood, Till with her owne hand Iustice weyes all.

_Bal_. Good.

[_Exeunt_.

(SCENE 3.)

_Queen_. Must then his Trul be once more sphear'd in Court To triumph in my spoyles, in my ecclipses? And I like moaping _Iuno_ sit whilst _Iove_ Varies his lust into five hundred shapes To steale to his whores bed? No, _Malateste_; Italian fires of Iealousie burn my marrow: For to delude my hopes the leacherous King Cuts out this robe of cunning marriage To cover his Incontinence, which flames Hot (as my fury) in his black desires. I am swolne big with child of vengeance now, And, till deliver'd, feele the throws of hell.

_Mal_. Iust is your Indignation, high and noble, And the brave heat of a true Florentine. For Spaine Trumpets abroad her Interest In the Kings heart, and with a black cole drawes On every wall your scoff'd at injuries. As one that has the refuse of her sheets, And the sick Autumne of the weakned King, Where she drunke pleasures up in the full spring.

_Queen_. That, _Malateste_, That, That Torrent wracks me; But _Hymens_ Torch (held downe-ward) shall drop out, And for it the mad Furies swing their brands About the Bride-chamber.

_Mal_. The Priest that joyns them Our Twin-borne malediction.

_Queen_. Lowd may it speake.

_Mal_. The herbs and flowers to strew the wedding way Be Cypresse, Eugh, cold Colloquintida.

_Queen_. Henbane and Poppey, and that magicall weed[218] Which Hags at midnight watch to catch the seed.

_Mal_. To these our execrations, and what mischiefe Hell can but hatch in a distracted braine Ile be the Executioner, tho it looke So horrid it can fright e'ne murder backe.

_Queen_. Poyson his whore to day, for thou shalt wait On the Kings Cup, and when, heated with wine, He cals to drinke the Brides health, Marry her Alive to a gaping grave.

_Mal_. At board?

_Queen_. At board.

_Mal_. When she being guarded round about with friends, Like a faire Iland hem'd with Rocks and Seas,-- What rescue shall I find?

_Queen_. Mine armes? dost faint? Stood all the Pyrenaean hills, that part Spaine and our Country, on each others shoulders, Burning with Aetnean flame, yet thou shouldst on, As being my steele of resolution First striking sparkles from my flinty brest. Wert thou to catch the horses of the Sunne Fast by their bridles and to turne back day, Wood'st thou not doo't (base coward) to make way To the Italians second blisse, revenge?

_Mal_. Were my bones threatned to the wheele of torture, Ile doo't.

_Enter Lopes_.

_Queen_. A ravens voyce, and it likes me well.

_Lop_. The King expects your presence.

_Mal_. So, so, we come, To turne this Brides day to a day of doome.

[_Exeunt_.

(SCENE 4.)

_A Banquet set out, Cornets sounding; Enter at one
dore Lopez, Valasco, Alanzo, No: after them King,
Cardinall, with Don Cockadillio, Bridegroome;
Queene and Malateste after. At the other dore
Alba, Carlo, Roderigo, Medina and Daenia, leading
Onaelia as Bride, Cornego and Iuanna after;
Baltazar alone; Bride and Bridegroome kisse,
and by the Cardinall are join'd hand in hand:
King is very merry, hugging Medina very lovingly_.

_King_. For halfe Spaines weight in Ingots I'de not lose This little man to day.

_Med_. Nor for so much Twice told, Sir, would I misse your kingly presence, Mine eyes have lost th'acquaintance of your face So long, and I so little late read o're That Index of the royall book your mind, That scarce (without your Comment) can I tell When in those leaves you turne o're smiles or frownes.

_King_. 'Tis dimnesse of your sight, no fault i'th letter; _Medina_, you shall find that free from Errata's: And for a proofe, If I could breath my heart in welcomes forth, This Hall should ring naught else. Welcome, _Medina_; Good Marquesse _Daenia_, Dons of Spaine all welcome! My dearest love and Queene, be it your place To entertaine the Bride and doe her grace.

_Queen_. With all the love I can, whose fire is such, To give her heat, I cannot burne too much.

_King_. Contracted Bride and Bridegroome sit; Sweet flowres not pluck'd in season lose their scent, So will our pleasures. Father Cardinall, Methinkes this morning new begins our reigne.

_Car_. Peace had her Sabbath ne're till now in Spaine.

_King_. Where is our noble Souldier, _Baltazar_? So close in conference with that Signior?

_No_. No.

_King_. What think'st thou of this great day _Baltazar_?

_Bal_. Of this day? why, as of a new play, if it ends well all's well. All men are but Actors; now if you, being the King, should be out of your part, or the Queene out of hers or your Dons out of theirs, here's No wil never be out of his.

_No_. No.

_Bal_. 'Twere a lamentable peece of stuffe to see great Statesmen have vile Exits; but I hope there are nothing but plaudities in all your Eyes.

_King_. Mine, I protest, are free.

_Queen_. And mine, by heaven!

_Mal_. Free from one goode looke till the blow be given.

_King_. Wine; a full Cup crown'd to _Medina's_ health!

_Med_. Your Highnesse this day so much honors me That I, to pay you what I truly owe, My life shall venture for it.

_Daen_. So shall mine.

_King_. _Onaelia_, you are sad: why frownes your brow?

_Onae_. A foolish memory of my past ills Folds up my looke in furrowes of old care, But my heart's merry, Sir.

_King_. Which mirth to heighten Your Bridegroome and your selfe first pledge this health Which we begin to our high Constable.

(_Three Cups fild: 1 to the King, 2 to the Bridegroome,
3 to Onaelia, with whom the King complements_.)

_Queen_. Is't speeding?

_Mal_. As all our Spanish figs[219] are.

_King_. Here's to _Medina's_ heart with all my heart.

_Med_. My hart shal pledge your hart i'th deepest draught That ever Spanyard dranke.

_King_. _Medina_ mockes me Because I wrong her with the largest Bowle: Ile change with thee, _Onaelia_.

(_Mal. rages_)

_Queen_. Sir, you shall not.

_King_. Feare you I cannot fetch it off?

_Queen_. _Malateste_!

_King_. This is your scorne to her, because I am doing This poorest honour to her.--Musicke sound! It goes were it ten fadoms to the ground.

_Cornets. King drinkes; Queen and Mal. storms_.

_Mal_. Fate strikes with the wrong weapon.

_Queen_. Sweet royall Sir, no more: it is too deepe.

_Mal_. Twill hurt your health, Sir.

_King_. Interrupt me in my drinke! 'tis off.

_Mal_. Alas, Sir, You have drunke your last: that poyson'd bowle I fill'd, Not to be put into your hand but hers.

_King_. Poyson'd?

_Omnes_. Descend black speckled soule to hell.
(_kil Mal. dyes_.)

_Mal_. The Queene has sent me thither?

_Card_. What new furie shakes now her snakes locks?

_Queen_. I, I, tis I, Whose soule is torne in peeces till I send This Harlot home.

_Car_. More Murders? save the lady.

_Balt_. Rampant? let the Constable make a mittimus.

_Med_. Keepe 'em asunder.

_Car_. How is it royall sonne?

_King_. I feele no poyson yet; only mine eyes Are putting out their lights: me thinks I feele Deaths Icy fingers stroking downe my face; And now I'me in a mortall cold sweat.

_Queen_. Deare my Lord.

_King_. Hence! call in my Physicians.

_Med_. Thy Physician, Tyrant, Dwels yonder: call on him or none.

_King_. Bloody _Medina_! stab'st thou, _Brutus_, too?

_Daen_. As hee is so are we all.

_King_. I burne; My braines boyle in a Caldron: O, one drop Of water now to coole me!

_Onae_. Oh, let him have Physicians!

_Med_. Keepe her backe.