(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.