(SCENE 2.)

Enter Medina, Daenia, Alba, Carlo and the Faction, with Rosemary in their hats.

Med. Keepe lock'd the doore and let none enter to us But who shares in our fortunes.

Daen. Locke the dores.

Alb. What entertainment did the King bestow Vpon your letters and the Cardinals?

Med. With a devouring eye he read 'em o're Swallowing our offers into his empty bosome As gladly as the parched earth drinks healths Out of the cup of heaven.

Carl. Little suspecting What dangers closely lye enambushed.

Daen. Let not us trust to that; there's in his brest Both Fox and Lion, and both those beasts can bite: We must not now behold the narrowest loope-hole But presently suspect a winged bullet Flyes whizzing by our eares.

Med. For when I let The plummet fall to sound his very soule In his close-chamber, being French-Doctor-like, He to the Cardinals eare sung sorcerous notes; The burthen of his song to mine was death, Onaelia's murder and Sebastians. And thinke you his voyce alters now? 'Tis strange To see how brave this Tyrant shewes in Court, Throan'd like a god: great men are petty starres Where his rayes shine; wonder fills up all eyes By sight of him: let him but once checke sinne, About him round all cry "oh excellent king! Oh Saint-like man!" but let this King retire Into his Closet to put off his robes, He like a Player leaves his parte off, too: Open his brest and with a Sunne-beame search it, There's no such man; this King of gilded clay Within is uglinesse, lust, treachery, And a base soule tho reard Colossus-high.

(Baltazar beats to come in.)

Daen. None till he speakes and that we know his voyce: Who are you?

Within Bal. An honest house-keeper in Rosemary-lane, too, If you dwell in the same parish.

Med. Oh 'tis our honest Souldier, give him entrance.

Enter Baltazar.

Bal. Men show like coarses[215] for I meet few but are stuck with Rosemary: everyone ask'd mee who was married to-day, and I told 'em Adultery and Repentance, and that shame and a Hangman followed 'em to Church.

Med. There's but two parts to play: shame has done hers But execution must close up the Scaene, And for that cause these sprigs are worne by all, Badges of Mariage, now of Funerall, For death this day turns Courtier.

Bal. Who must dance with him?

Med. The King, and all that are our opposites; That dart or this must flye into the Court, Either to shoote this blazing starre from Spaine Or else so long to wrap him up in clouds Till all the fatall fires in him burne out, Leaving his State and conscience cleere from doubt Of following uprores.

Alb. Kill not but surprize him.

Carl. Thats my voyce still.

Med. Thine, Souldier.

Bal. Oh, this Collicke of a kingdome! when the wind of treason gets amongst the small guts, what a rumbling and a roaring it keepes! and yet, make the best of it you can, it goes out stinking. Kill a King! King!

Daen. Why?

Bal. If men should pull the Sun out of heaven every time 'tis ecclips'd, not all the Wax nor Tallow in Spaine woo'd serve to make us Candles for one yeare.

Med. No way to purge the sicke State but by opening a veine.

Bal. Is that your French Physicke? if every one of us shoo'd be whip'd according to our faults, to be lasht at a carts taile would be held but a flea-biting.

Enter Signeor No:[216] Whispers Medina.

Med. What are you? come you from the King?

No. No.

Bal. No? more no's? I know him, let him enter.

Med. Signeor, I thanke your kind Intelligence. The newes long since was sent into our eares, Yet we embrace your love; so fare you well.

Carl. Will you smell to a sprig of Rosemary?

No. No.

Bal. Will you be hang'd?

No. No.

Bal. This is either Signeor No, or no Signeor.

Med. He makes his love to us a warning-peece To arme our selves against we come to Court, Because the guard is doubled.

Omnes. Tush, we care not.

Bal. If any here armes his hand to cut off the head, let him first plucke out my throat. In any Noble Act Ile wade chin-deepe with you: but to kill a King!

Med. No, heare me—

Bal. You were better, my Lord, saile 500 times to Bantam[217] in the West-Indies than once to Barathrum in the Low-Countries. It's hot going under the line there; the Callenture of the soule is a most miserable madnesse.

Med. Turne, then, this wheele of Fate from shedding blood, Till with her owne hand Iustice weyes all.

Bal. Good.

[Exeunt.