(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.