_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?
_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.