(SCENE 2.)

Enter Cornego, Baltazar.

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

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

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

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

Cor. At the pricke-song[208].

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

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

Bal. What instrument playd she upon?

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

Bal. Sol, Ra, me, Fa, Mi.

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

Bal. The tune? come.

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

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

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

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

Cor. Assa Fetida? what's that?

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

Cor. Why, what ayles my Lady?

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

Cor. I said somewhat cut her soule in pieces.

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

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

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

Cor. The Divell lyes sicke of the Mulligrubs.

Bal. Or the Cony is dub'd, and three sheepskins—

Cor. With the wrong side outward.

Bal. Shall make the Fox a Night-cap.

Cor. So the Goose talkes French to the Buzzard.

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

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

Bal. The first cut be thine: farewell!

Cor. Is this all?

Bal. Woo't not trust an Almanacke?

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

Enter Lopez.

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

Bal. Away, Otterhound.

Cor. Dancing Beare, I'me gone. [Exit.

Enter King attended.

King. A private roome.— [Exeunt Omnes. Is't done? hast drawne thy two edg'd sword out yet?

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

King. What meanst thou?

Bal. The edge abated? feele.

King. No, no, I see it.

Bal. As blunt as Ignorance.

King. How? put up—So—how?

Bal. I saw by chance, hanging in Cardinall Alvarez Gallery, a picture of hell.

King. So; what of that?

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

King. Was this all?

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

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

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

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

Enter Cardinall, and Medina like a French Doctor.

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

King. A Frenchman?

Med. We, Mounsire.

King. Cannot he speake the Spanish?

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

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

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

King. Onaelia.

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

King. Speake low.

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

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

Med. Monsire Doctor Devile.

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

Med. Esselent fort boone.

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

Bal. Brother Cain, wee'll shake hands.

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

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

Bal. That musicke were worth hearing.

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

Car. How, princely sonne?

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

Car. You are.

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

Car. No, Sir, you should not.

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

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

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

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

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

King. Rise, my goon Angell, Whose holy tunes beat from me that evill spirit Which jogs mine elbow.—Hence, thou dog of hell!

Med. Baw wawghe.

King. Barke out no more, thou Mastiffe; get you all gone, And let my soule sleepe.—There's gold; peace, see it done. [Exit.

Manent Medina, Baltazar, Cardinall.

Bal. Sirra, you Salsa-Perilla Rascall, Toads-guts, you whorson pockey French Spawne of a bursten-bellyed Spyder, doe you heare, Monsire?

Med. Why doe you barke and snap at my Narcissus as if I were de Frenshe doag?

Bal. You Curre of Cerberus litter, (strikes him), you'll poyson the honest Lady? doe but once toot[212] into her chamber-pot and I'll make thee looke worse then a witch does upon a close-stoole.

Car. You shall not dare to touch him, stood he here Single before thee.

Bal. I'le cut the Rat into Anchovies.

Car. I'le make thee kisse his hand, imbrace him, love him, And call him— (Medina discovers)

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

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

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

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

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

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

Car. My best in this I'le doe.

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

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

[Exeunt.

Actus Quintus.

SCAENA PRIMA.

Enter King, Cardinall with letters, [Valasco and Lopez.]

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

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

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

Car. It shall be taken. [Exit.

King. Valasco, call the Captaine of our Guard, Bid him attend us instantly.

Val. I shall. [Exit.

King. Lopez, come hither: see Letters from Duke Medina, both in the name Of him and all his Faction, offering peace, And our old love (his Neece) Onaelia In Marriage with her free and faire consent To Cockadillio, a Don of Spaine.

Lop. Will you refuse this?

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

Lop. How, Sir! endangers?

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

Lop. A brave revenge.— The Captaine of your Guard.

Enter Captaine.

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

Alanz. I am charm'd, Sir. [Exit.

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

Val. Not death shall fright me.

[Exeunt Valasco and Lopez.

Enter Baltazar.

Bal. 'Tis done, Sir.

King. Death! what's done?

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

King. Sebastian?

Bal. He shall ne're speake more Spanish.

King. Thou teachest me to curse thee.

Bal. For a bargaine you set your hand to?

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

Bal. But half a Crowne? that's nothing: His braines sticke in my conscience more than yours.

King. How lost I the French Doctor?

Bal. As French-men lose their haire: here was too hot staying for him.

King. Get thou, too, from my sight: the Queen wu'd see thee.

Bal. Your gold, Sir.

King. Goe with Judas and repent.

Bal. So men hate whores after lusts heat is spent; I'me gone, Sir.

King. Tell me true,—is he dead?

Bal. Dead.

King. No matter; 'tis but morning of revenge; The Sun-set shall be red and Tragicall. [Exit.

Bal. Sinne is a Raven croaking[214] her owne fall. [Exit.