(SCENE 2.)

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

SONG.

Quest. Oh sorrow, sorrow, say, where dost thou dwell?

Answ. In the lowest roome of Hell.

Quest. Art thou borne of Humane race?

Answ. No, no, I have a furier[181] face.

Quest. Art thou in City, Towne or Court?

Answ. I to every place resort.

Quest. O why into the world is sorrow sent?

Answ. Men afflicted best repent.

Quest. What dost thou feed on?

Answ. Broken sleepe.

Quest. What tak'st thou pleasure in?

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

Quest. Oh when, oh when shall sorrow quiet have?

Answ. Never, never, never, never, Never till she finds a grave.

Enter Cornego.

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

Onae. Sorrow becomes me best.

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

Onae. What should I doe to be merry, Cornego?

Corn. Be not sad.

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

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

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

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

Onae. Say on.

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

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

[Exit Corn.

Enter Cardinall.

Car. Peace to you, Lady.

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

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

Onae. What Aesculapius can doe this?

Card. The King—'tis from the King I come.

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

Card. Heare what I speake.

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

Car. Is it such poyson?

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

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

Onae. Be dumbe for ever.

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

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

Car. You shall.

Onae. But sweare.

Car. What conjurations can more bind mine oath?

Onae. But did you sweare in earnest?

Car. Come, you trifle.

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

Car. The King repents.

Onae. Pray, that agen, my Lord.

Car. The King repents.

Onae. His wrongs to me?

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

Onae. Blest penitence!

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

Onae. God-like Justice!

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

Onae. Heaven pardon him; I shall.

Car. Will marry you.

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

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

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

Enter King.

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

King. Leave us. [Exit Car.

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

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

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

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

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

King. And wish'd it had beene I.

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

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

Onae. And will you sweare to this?

King. By this I sweare.

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

King. Why, then by this.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Onae. Defend me, heaven!

King. Pray there may come Embassadors from France: Their followers are good Customers.

Onae. Save me from madnesse!

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

Onae. You doe but counterfeit to mocke my joyes.

King. Away, bold strumpet.

Onae. Are there eyes in heaven to see this?

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

Enter Cornego.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Enter Medina.

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

Med. More horrors yet?

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

Med. Instruct me in this cause.

Onae. The King! the Contract! [Exit.

Corn. There's cud enough for you to chew upon. [Exit.

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

Actus Secundus.

SCAENA PRIMA[186].

Enter Baltazar, slighted by Dons.

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

Enter Don Roderigo.

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

Ro. No.

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

Enter Cockadillio.

Signeor, is the king at leisure?

Cock. To doe what?

Balt. To heare a Souldier speake.

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

Bal. Are you of Court, Sir?

Cock. Yes, the kings Barber.

Bal. That's his eare picker.—Your name, I pray?

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

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

Cock. I am no Barbar-Surgeon. [Exit.

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

Enter King, Alanzo, Carlo, Cockadillio.

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

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

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

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

King. On to the Battaile!

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

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

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

King. So.

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

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

(Onaelia beats at the doore.)

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

King. What womans voyce is that?

Omnes. Medina's Neece.

King. Bar out that fiend.

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

King. Keepe her from following me: a gard!

Alanz. They are ready, Sir.

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

Bal. Sir, I would be private with you.

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

[Exeunt.

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

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

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

King. What kingdome?

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

King. Wherein?

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

King. Ha, ha, ha!

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

King. Any more?

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

King. Nay, spit thy venome.

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

King. No more.

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

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

Bal. I care not.

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

Enter Lords drawne.

Omnes. In danger, Sir?

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

Bal. Go! dye! [Exit.

Enter Cardinal, Roderigo, Alba,[193] Dania, Valasco.

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

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

King. Art fratricide?

Car. You are so, Sir.

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

Card. For Honours sake, For love you beare to conscience—

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

Omnes. Our hands are too't.

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

King. Marquesse Daenia, Wee'll lend that tongue when this no more can speake.

Car. Deare Sir.

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

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

King. Th'art mad ex tempore: What eye? which is that wound?

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

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

[Exeunt.

Manent Daenia, Alba.

Daen. Hee's mad with rage or joy.

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

Enter Medina.

Med. Where's the king?

Daen. Wrapt up in clouds of lightning.

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

Alb. He tore it not but burnt it.

Med. Openly?

Daen. And heaven with us to witnesse.

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

Alb. Meet and consult.

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

[Exeunt.