The Printer to the Reader.

Understanding Reader, I present this to your view
which has received applause in Action. The Poet
might conceive a compleat satisfaction upon the
Stages approbation. But the Printer rests not there,
knowing that that which was acted and approved
upon the Stage might be no less acceptable in Print.
It is now communicated to you whose leisure and
knowledge admits of reading and reason: Your
Judgment now this *Posthumus* assures himself will
well attest his predecessors endevours to give content
to men of the ablest quality, such as intelligent
readers are here conceived to be. I could have
troubled you with a longer epistle, but I feare to
stay you from the booke, which affords better words
and matter than I can. So, the work modestly
depending in the skale of your Judgment, the Printer
for his part craves your pardon, hoping by his
promptness to doe you greater service as conveniency
shall enable him to give you more or better testimony
of his entirenesse towards you.

N. V.

266

The booke of a blacke sinne deepe-printed in me.
Oh, father, my disease lyes in my soule.

*Card.* The old wound, Sir?

*King.* Yes, that; it festers inward:
For though I have a beauty to my bed
That even Creation envies at, as wanting
Stuffe to make such another, yet on her pillow
I lye by her but an Adulterer
And she as an Adulteresse. Shee's my Queene
And wife, yet but my strumpet, tho the Church
Set on the seale of Mariage: good Onælia,
Neece to our Lord high Constable of Spaine,
Was precontracted mine.

*Card.* Yet when I stung
Your Conscience with remembrance of the Act,
Your eares were deafe to counsell.

*King.* I confesse it.

*Card.* Now to unty the knot with your new Queene
Would shake the Crowne halfe from your head.

*King.* Even Troy
(Tho she hath wept her eyes out) wud find teares
To wayle my kingdomes ruines.

*Card.* What will you doe then?

*King.* She has that Contract written, seal'd by you
And other Churchmen (witnesses too't).

A kingdome should be given for that paper.

*Card.* I wud not, for what lyes beneath the
Moone,
Be made a wicked Engine to breake in pieces

That holy Contract.

*King.* 'Tis my soules ayme to tye it

Vpon a faster knot.

*Card.* I do not see

How you can with safe conscience get it from her.

*King.* Oh, I know

267

I wrastle with a Lyonesse: to imprison her
And force her too't I dare not. Death! what King
Did ever say I dare not? I must have it.
A Bastard have I by her; and that Cocke
Will have (I feare) sharpe spurres, if he crow after
Him that trod for him. Something must be done
Both to the Henne and Chicken: haste you therefore
To sad Onælia; tell her I'm resolv'd
To give my new Hawke bells and let her flye;
My Queene I'm weary of and her will marry.
To this our Text adde you what glosse you please;
The secret drifts of Kings are depthlesse Seas.

[Exeunt.]

(SCENE 2.)

A Table set out cover'd with blacke: two waxen tapers:
the Kings Picture at one end, a Crucifix at the
other: Onælia 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 furier¹ 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?

¹ Quy. a fury's face.

268

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 Lacrymæ's?¹ 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 thank you. Come, be joviall.

*Onæ.* Sorrow becomes me best.

*Corn.* A suit of laugh and lye downe² would weare better.

*Onæ.* What should I doe to be merry, Cornego?

*Corn.* Be not sad.

*Onæ.* 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.

*Onæ.* 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 shall 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.

*Onæ.* Say on.

¹ 'Lacrymæ'-one of the many allusions to John Dowland's musical work of that name.

² 'Laugh and lay down' (more usually written 'lie down') was the name of a game at cards. A prose-tract by 'C. T.' published in 1605, is entitled 'Laugh and Lie Down: or the World's Folly.' The expression, it need hardly be said, is often used in a wanton sense.

269

*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 soever 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.

*Onæ.* These to such soules are mirth, but to mine none:

Away!

[Exit Corn.

*Enter Cardinall.*

*Car.* Peace to you, Lady.

*Onæ.* 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.

*Onæ.* What Æsculapius can doe this?

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

*Onæ.* A name I hate:

Oh I am deafe now to your Embassie.

*Card.* Heare what I speake.

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

*Car.* Is it such payson?

*Onæ.*

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

270

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 science

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.

Onæ. 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.

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

Car. You shall.

Onæ. But sweare.

Car. What conjurations can more bind mine oath?

Onæ. But did you sweare in earnest?

Car. Come, you trifle.

Onæ. No marvell, for my hopes have bin so
drown'd

I still despaire. Say on.

Car. The King repents.

Onæ. Pray, that agen, my Lord.

Car. The King repents.

Onæ. His wrongs to me?

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

Onæ. Blest penitence!

Car. 'Has turn'd his eyes¹ into his leprous
bosome,

¹ 4to. joyes.

271

And like a King vowes execution
On all his traiterous passions.

Onæ. God-like Justice!

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

Onæ. Heaven pardon him; I shall.

Car. Will marry you.

Onæ. 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?

Onæ. 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.

Onæ. 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!

Onæ. 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

Grieſe like my shame, whose length may outlive Time:
This Crosse the object of my wounded soule,

272

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 ?

*Onæ.* 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.

*Onæ.*

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 seale our Nuptials;
To prive<sup>1</sup> thy sonne, with full consent of State,
Spaines heire Apparant, borne in wedlocke vowes.

*Onæ.* And will you sweare to this?

*King.*

By this I sweare.

¹ Quy. prove.

273

*Onæ.* Oh you have sworne false oathes upon that
booke.

*King.* Why, then by this.

*Onæ.*

Take heed you print it deeply.

How for your concubine (Bride, I cannot say) ?

She stains 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?

*Onæ.*

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.

*Onæ.* 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

2 M

274

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.

Onæ. Defend me, heaven!

King. Pray there may come Embassadors from
France:

Their followers are good Customers.

Onæ. Save me from madnesse!

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

Onæ. You doe but counterfeit to mocke my joyes.

King. Away, bold strumpet.

Onæ. Are there eyes in heaven to see this?

King. Call and try : here's a whole 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?

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

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

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

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

Onæ. 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.

Onæ. Is there a vengeance

275

Yet lacking to my ruine ? let it fall,
Now let it fall upon me!

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

Onæ. 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.

Onæ. 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.

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

Med. More horrors yet?

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

Med. Instruct me in this cause.

Onæ. 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.]

276

Actus Secundus.

SCÆNA PRIMA.¹

*Enter Baltazar, slighted by Dons.*

*Bal.* Thou god of good Apparell, what strange
fellows
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?² save thee, Illustrious Don.

*Enter Don Roderigo.*

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

¹ Much of this scene is found, almost word for word, in
colloquy 4 of John Day's *Parliament of Bees*.

² One of the characters in the *New Inn* is Fly, 'the Parasite of the Inn'; and in the *Virgin Martyr* (ii. 2) we also find the word 'fly' used (like Lat. musca) for an inquisitive person. In the text I suspect we should read 'fly-about' for flye-boat.

277

*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

*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)

[Exit.]

278

—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.¹
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, Cockadilio.*

*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 Æneas-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*

¹ 'Blacke gard' was the name given to the lowest drudges who rode amongst the pots and pans in royal processions: vid. Gifford's *Jonson, II. 169*.

279

scene; 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,¹ 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, Petro-*
*nels, 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'd² rascals fought pell mell; here*

¹ The compositor seems to have been dozing: the word 'Vaw' points to the reading 'Vaward,' and probably the passage ran—'this the Vaward, this the Rearward.'

² 'Totter'd' i.e. tatter'd. Cf. *Richard II.* (iii. 3) 'the castle's totter'd battlements' (the reading of the 4to.; the Folios give 'tatter'd'). In *King John* (v. 5) I think, with Staunton, that the expression 'tott'ring colours' means 'drooping colours' rather than, as usually explained, 'tattered.'

280

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 car-
kasses, 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
yeached; my hayres and oath are of one length, for
(with Cæsar) 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.

(Onælia beats at the doore.)

Onæ. Let me come in! I'll 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.

Onæ. I'll 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?

281

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 king-
dome at home?

King. What kingdome?

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

King. Wherein?

Bal. I'll 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 cloudes 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 Cælestis, 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-point¹ with

¹ 'Spurn-point—An old game mentioned in a curious play called Apollo Shroving, 12mo., Lond. 1627, p. 49.' Halliwell.

2 N

282

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 shall 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,¹ 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 Cardinall, Roderigo, Alba,² Dænia, Valasco.

King. I find my Scepter shaken by enchantments

¹ 'Grandoes'.—I find the word so spelt in Heywood's *A Challenge for Beauty*—'I, and I assure your Ladiship, ally'de to the best Grandoes of Spaine.' (Works, v. 18.)

² 4to. Albia.

283

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 witnessne all

What here I cancell; read, doe you know this bond ?

Omnes. Our hands are too't.

Dæn. '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 Dænia,

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:

284

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 Dænia, Alba.*

*Dæn.* 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?

285

*Dæn.* 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?

*Dæn.* And heaven with us to witness.

*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.]

(SCENE 2.)

*Enter Onælia one way, Cornego another.*

*Cor.* Madam, there's a beare without to speake
with you.

*Onæ.* A Beare.

*Cor.* Its a Man all hairye and that's as bad.

*Onæ.* Who ist?

*Cor.* Tis one Master Captaine Baltazar.

*Onæ.* 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.

*Onæ.* Let him come in.

*Enter Baltazar.*

*Cor.* Hist; a ducke, a ducke; ¹ there she is, Sir.

¹ Cornego is telling the Captain to 'duck'—to make his bow—to Onælia.

286

Bal. A Souldiers good wish blesse you, Lady.

Onæ. Good wishes are most welcome, Sir, to me;
So many bad ones blast me.

Bal. Doe you not know me ?

Onæ. 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.

Onæ. 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 ?

Onæ. 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 ?

Onæ. Oh, I woo'd crowne him

With thanks, praise, gold, and tender of my life.

Bal. Shall I bee that Germane Fencer¹ and beat
all the knocking boyes before me ? shall I kill him ?

Onæ. 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 ?

¹ Nares quotes from the Owle's *Almanacke*, 1618, p. 6, an allusion to this worthy,—‘Since the German fencer cudgell'd most of our English fencers, now about 5 moneths past.’

287

Onæ. One step to humane blisse is sweet revenge.

Bal. Stay ; what made you love him ?

Onæ. 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 Bastard¹ 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.

Onæ. 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.

Onæ. 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 perjurious Prince

Who has done wickednesse at which even heaven

Shakes when the Sunne beholds it; O yet I'd
rather

Ten thousand poyson'd ponyards stab'd my brest

Then one should touch his : bloudy slave ! I'le play

¹ It is hardly necessary to remind the reader that ‘bastard’ was the name of a sweet Spanish wine.

288

My selfe the Hangman and will Butcher thee
If thou but prick'st his finger.

Bal. Saist thou me so? give me thy goll,¹ 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.

Onæ. Art thou not counterfeit?

Bal. Now, by my skarres, I am not.

Onæ. 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.

### SCÆNA 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.

¹ 'Goll'—A cant expression for 'hand': it is found continually in our old writers.

289

#### 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 seems 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—

20

290

Oh, pardon me if I must speake their language.

*Queen.* Say on.

*Mal.* That the most Catholike King in marrying
you

Keeps you but as his whole.

*Queen.* Are we their Theames?

*Mal.* And that *Medina's* Neece, *Onælia*,

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

291

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 insure 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.]

(SCENE 2.)

*Enter Cornego, Onælia.*

*Corn.* Here's a parcell of mans flesh has beene
hanging up and downe all this morning to speake
with you.

*Onæ.* Is't not some executioner?

292

Corn. I see nothing about him to hang in but's garters.

Onæ. Sent from the king to warne me of my death:
I prethe bid him welcome.

Cor. He says he is a Poet.

Onæ. Then bid him better welcome:
Belike he's come to write my Epitaph,—
Some ¹ scurvy thing, I warrant: welcome, Sir.

### Enter Poet.

Poet. Madam,² my love presents this book unto you.

Onæ. To me? I am not worthy of a line,
Vnlesse at that line hang some hooke to choake me.
'To the most honoured Lady—Onælia.'

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.

Onæ. What does it treate of?

Poet. Of the sollemne Triumphs

Set forth at Coronation of the Queene.

Onæ. Hissing (the Poets whirle-wind) blast thy
lines!

Com'st thou to mocke my Tortures with her
Triumphs?

¹ The words 'Some scurvy thing, I warrant' should no
doubt be given to Cornego.

² The conversation between Onælia and the Poet very
closely resembles, in parts, Character 5 of John Day's *Par-
liament of Bees*.

293

Poet. 'Las, Madam!

Onæ. 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.
Onæ. 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.

Onæ. Doe it then for me.

Poet. And every line must be
A whip to draw blood.

Onæ. Better.

Poet. And to dare
The stab from him it touches. He that writes
Such Libels (as you call 'em) must lance ¹ 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.

Onæ. Vndertake that Cure
And crowne thy verse with Bayes.

Poet. Madam, I'le doo't;
But I must have the parties Character.

Onæ. 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

¹ 4to lanch.

294

Sung to the Hanging Tune.¹ I dare not, Madam.

Onæ. 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.
Onæ. 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 soarè high and sing most cleare.
Onæ. Are they borne Poets ?
Poet. Yes.
Onæ. Dye they ?
Poet. Oh, never dye.
Onæ. My misery is then a Poet sure,

¹ 'The Hanging Tune' i.e. the tune of 'Fortune my Foe,' to which were usually sung ballads relating to murders. The music of 'Fortune my Foe,' is given in Mr. Chappell's 'Popular Music of the Olden Time'; and the words may be seen in the 'Bayford Ballads' (edited by Mr. Ebsworth, our greatest master of ballad-lore).

295

For time has given it an Eternity.—

What sorts of Poets are there ?

Poet. Two sorts, Lady;
The great Poets and the small Poets.

Onæ. 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.

Onæ. Which in the kingdome now is the best Poet?

Poet. Emulation.
Onæ. Which the next ?

Poet. Necessity.
Onæ. And which the worst ?

Poet. Selfe-love.
Onæ. Say I turne Poet, what should I get ?

Poet. Opinion.
Onæ. '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 Inflam-
mation of the Livor, it dyed of a burning Feaver.

Onæ. What shall I doe, Cornego ? for this Poet
Has fill'd me with a fury : I could write

296

Strange Satyrs now against Adulterers
And Marriage-breakers.

Cor. I beleeve you, Madam.—But here comes your
Uncle.

Enter Medina, Alanzo, Carlo, Alba, Sebastian, Dænia.

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.

Onæ. 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 ?

Onæ. 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.

Onæ. I have no part in either.

Carl. You shall in both,

Can Swords but cut the way.

Onæ. 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 do to him that hurts your mother?

297

Seb. The King my father shall kill him, I trow.

Dæn. 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—

Onæ. 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, perjurious, perfidious man—

Onæ. 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.

Onæ. I, I, that's well; pray sweare.

2 P

298

*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.]

(SCENE 3.)

Enter King, Queen, Malateste, Valesco, Lopez.

*King.* The Presence doore be guarded; let none enter

On forfeit of your lives without our knowledge.

Oh, you are false physitians all unto me,

You bring me payson but no antidotes.

*Queen.* Your selfe that payson brewes.

*King.* Prethe, no more.

*Queen.* I will, I must speake more.

*King.* Thunder aloud.

*Queen.* My child, yet newly quickened in my
wombe,

Is blasted with the fires of Bastardy.

*King.* Who? who dares once but thinke so in his
dreame?

*Mal.* Medina's faction preached it openly.

*King.* Be curst he and his Faction: oh, how I
labour

For these preventions! but, so crosse is Fate,

My ills are ne're hid from me but their Cures.

What's to be done?

*Queen.* That which being left undone,
Your life lyes at the stake: let 'em be breathlesse,
Both brat and mother.

*King.* Ha!

299

*Mal.* She playes true Musicke, Sir :

The mischiefes you are drench'd in are so full

You need not feare to add to 'em; since now

No way is left to guard thy rest secure

But by a meanes like this.

*Lop.* All Spaine rings forth

*Medina's name and his Confederates.*

*Rod.* All his Allyes and friends rush into troopes
Like raging Torrents.

*Val.* And lowd Trumpet forth
Your perjuries; seducing the wild people

And with rebellious faces threatning all.

*King.* I shall be massacred in this their spleene
E're I have time to guard my selfe; I feele

The fire already falling: where's our guard?

*Mal.* Planted at Garden gate, with a strict
charge

That none shall enter but by your command.

*King.* Let 'em be doubled: I am full of thoughts,
A thousand wheeles tosse my incertaine feares;

There is a storme in my hot boyling braines

Which rises without wind; a horrid one.

What clamor's that?

*Queen.* Some treason: guard the King!

Enter Baltazar drawne; one of the Guard fals.

*Bal.* Not in?

*Mal.* One of your guard's slaine: keepe off the
murderer!

*Bal.* I am none, Sir.

*Val.* There's a man drop'd down by thee.

*King.* Thou desperate fellow, thus presse in upon
us!

Is murder all the story we shall read?

300

What King can stand when thus his subjects
bleed!

What hast thou done?

*Bal.* No hurt.

*King.* Plaid even the Wolfe

And from a fold committed to my charge
Stolne and devour'd one of the flocke.

*Bal.* Y'ave sheepe enow for all that, Sir; I have
kill'd none tho; or, if I have, mine owne blood shed
in your quarrels may begge my pardon; my businesse
was in haste to you.

*King.* I woo'd not have thy sinne scoar'd on my
head

For all the Indian Treasury. I prethee tell me,
Suppose thou hast our pardon, O, can that cure
Thy wounded conscience? can there my pardon
helpe thee?

Yet, having deserv'd well both of Spaine and us,
We will not pay thy worth with losse of life,
But banish thee for ever.

*Bal.* For a Groomes death?

*King.* No more; we banish thee our Court and
kingdome:

A King that fosters men so dipt in blood
May be call'd mercifull but never good:

Begone upon thy life.

*Bal.* Well: farewell. [Exit.

*Val.* The fellow is not dead but wounded, Sir.

*Queen.* After him, Malateste; in our lodging
Stay that rough fellow; hee's the man shall doo't:

*Haste, or my hopes are lost.*

[Exit Mal.

Why are you sad, Sir?

*King.* For thee, Paullina, swell my troubled
thoughts,
Like billowes beaten by too (two?) warring winds.

301

*Queen.* Be you but rul'd by me, I'le make a calme
Smooth as the brest of heaven.

*King.* Instruct me how.

*Queen.* You (as your fortunes tye you) are inclin'd
To have the blow given.

*King.* Where's the Instrument?

*Queen.* 'Tis found in Baltazar.

*King.* Hee's banished.

*Queen.* True,
But staid by me for this.

*King.* His spirit is hot
And rugged, but so honest that his soule
Will ne're turn devill to do it.

*Queen.* Put it to tryall:
Retire a little: hither I'le send for him,
Offer repeale and favours if he doe it;
But if deny, you have no finger in't,
And then his doome of banishment stands good.

*King.* Be happy in thy workings; I obey. [Exit.

*Queen.* Stay, Lopez.

*Lop.* Madam.

*Queen.* Step to our Lodging, Lopez,
And instantly bid Malateste bring
The banish'd Baltazar to us.

*Lop.* I shall. [Exit.
*Queen.* Thrive my blacke plots; the mischiefes I
have set

Must not so dye; Ills must new Ills beget.

### Enter Malateste and Baltazar.

*Bal.* Now! what hot poyson'd Custard must I put
my Spoone into now?

*Queen.* None, for mine honour now is thy protection.

302

Mal. Which, Noble Souldier, she will pawn for thee

But never forfeit.

Bal. 'Tis a faire gage; keepe it.

Queen. Oh, Baltazar, I am thy friend, and mark'd thee

When the King sentenc'd thee to banishment:

Fire sparkled from thine eyes of rage and griefe;

Rage to be doom'd so for a Groome so base,

And griefe to lose thy country. Thou hast kill'd none:

The Milke-sop is but wounded, thou art not banish'd.

Bal. If I were I lose nothing; I can make any Countrey mine. I have a private Coat for Italian Steeleetto's, I can be treacherous with the Wallowne, drunke with the Dutch, a Chimney-sweeper with the Irish, a Gentleman with the Welsh,¹ and turne arrant theefe with the English: what then is my Country to me?

Queen. The King, who (rap'd with fury) banish'd thee,

Shall give thee favours, yeeld but to destroy
What him distempers.

Bal. So; and what's the dish I must dresse?

Queen. Onely the cutting off a paire of lives.

Bal. I love no Red-wine healths.

Mal. The King commands it; you are but Executioner.

¹ Cf. Dekker's *Match me in London* (Dramatic Works, iv. 180)—

'I doe speake English

When I'de move pittie; when dissemble, Irish;

Dutch when I reele; and tho I feed on scalions

If I should brag Gentility I'de gabble Welch.

303

Bal. The Hang-man? An office that will hold as long as hempe lasts: why doe not you begge the office, Sir?

Queen. Thy victories in field shall never crowne thee

As this one Act shall.

Bal. Prove but that, 'tis done.

Queen. Follow him close; hee's yeelding.

Mal. Thou shall be call'd thy Countries Patriot

For quenching out a fire now newly kindling

In factious bosomes; and shall thereby save

More Noble Spanyards lives than thou slew'st Moores.

Queen. Art thou not yet converted?

Bal. No point.

Queen. Read me then:

Medina's Neece, by a contract from the King,

Layes clayme to all that's mine, my Crowne, my bed;

A sonne she has by him must fill the Throne

If her great faction can but worke that wonder.

Now heare me—

Bal. I doe with gaping eares.

Queen. I swell with hopefull issue to the King.

Bal. A brave Don call you mother.

Mal. Of this danger

The feare afflicts the King.

Bal. Cannot much blame him.

Queen. If therefore by the riddance of this Dame—

Bal. Riddance? oh! the meaning on't is murder.

Mal. Stab her or so, that's all.

Queen. That Spaine be free from frights, the King from feares,

And I, now held his Infamy, be called Queene;

The Treasure of the kingdome shall lye open

To pay thy Noble darings.

304

Bal. Come, Ile doo't, provided I heare Jove call to
me tho he rores; I must have the King's hand to
this warrant, else I dare not serve it upon my
Conscience.

*Queen.* Be firme, then; behold the King is come.

*Enter King.*

Bal. Acquaint him.

*Queen.* I found the metal hard, but with oft beating
Hees now so softened he shall take impression
From any seale you give him.

*King.* Baltazar,
Come hither, listen; whatsoe're our Queene
Has importun'd thee to, touching Onælia
(Neece to the Constable) and her young sonne,
My voyce shall second it and signe her promise.

Bal. Their riddance ?

King. That.

Bal. What way ? by poyson ?

King. So.

Bal. Starving, or strangling, stabbing, smothering?

*Queen.* Good.

King. Any way, so 'tis done.

Bal. But I will have, Sir,
This under your owne hand; that you desire it,
You plot it, set me on too't.

King. Penne, Inke and paper.

Bal. And then as large a pardon as law and wit
Can engrosse for me.

King. Thou shalt ha my pardon.

Bal. A word more, Sir; pray will you tell me one
thing?

King. Yes, any thing, deare Baltazar.

Bal. Suppose

305

I have your strongest pardon, can that cure
My wounded Conscience? can there your pardon
help me?

You not onely knocke the Ewe a' th' head, but cut
the Innocent Lambes throat too: yet you are no
Butcher!

*Queen.* Is this thy promis'd yeelding to an Act
So wholesome for thy Country?

King. Chide him not.

Bal. I woo'd not have this sinne scor'd on my head
For all the Indæan Treasury.

King. That song no more :
Doe this and I will make thee a great man.

Bal. Is there no farther trick in't, but my blow,
your purse, and my pardon ?

Mal. No nets upon my life to entrap thee.

Bal. Then trust me, these knuckles worke it.

King. Farewell, be confident and sudden.

Bal. Yes;

Subjects may stumble when Kings walk astray:

Thine Acts shall be a new Apocrypha.

[Exeunt.]

## Actus Quartus.

### SCÆNA PRIMA.

*Enter Medina, Alba and Dænia, met by Baltazar with a Ponyard and a Pistoll.*

Bal. You meet a Hydra; see, if one head failes;
Another with a sulphurous beake stands yawning.

Med. What hath rais'd up this Devill ?

Bal. A great mans vices, that can raise all hell.

2 Q

306

What woo'd you call that man, who under-saile
In a most goodly ship wherein he ventures
His life, fortunes and honours, yet in a fury
Should hew the Mast downe, cast Sayles over-boord,
Fire all the Tacklings, and to crowne this madnesse
Shoo'd blow up all the Deckes, burne th' oaken ribbes
And in that Combat 'twixt two Elements
Leape desperately and drowne himselfe i' th Seas,—
What were so brave a fellow?

Omnes. A brave blacke villaine.

Bal. That's I; all that brave blacke villaine dwels
in me,

If I be that blacke villaine; but I am not:
A Nobler Character prints out my brow,
Which you may thus read: I was banish'd Spaine
For emptying a Court-Hogshead, but repeal'd
So I woo'd (e're my reeking Iron was cold)
Promise to give it a deepe crimson dye
In—none heare?—stay—no, none heare.

Med. Whom then?

Bal. Basely to stab a woman, your wrong'd Neece,
And her most innocent sonne Sebastian.

Alb. The Boare now foames with whetting.

Dæn. What has blunted

Thy weapons point at these?

Bal. My honesty,

A signe at which few dwell, pure honesty.

I am a vassaile to Medina's house;

He taught me first the A, B, C of warre¹

E're I was Truncheon-high I had the stile

Of beardlesse Captaine, writing then but boy:

And shall I now turne slave to him that fed me

¹ Cf. Day's *Parliament of Bees*, Character 4.

307

With Cannon-bullets, and taught me, Estridge-¹
like,

To digest Iron and Steele? no: yet I yeelded

With willow-bendings to commanding breaths.

Med. Of whom?

Bal. Of King and Queene: with supple Hams

And an ill-boading looke I vow'd to doo't;

Yet, lest some choake-peare ² of State-policy,

Shoo'd stop my throat and spoyle my drinking-
pipe,

See (like his cloake) I hung at the Kings elbow

Till I had got his hand to signe my life.

Dæn. Shall we see this and sleepe?

Alb. No, whilst these wake.

Med. 'Tis the Kings hand.

Bal. Thinke you me a quoyner?

Med. No, no, thou art thy selfe still, Noble
Baltazar;

I ever knew thee honest, and the marke

Stands still upon thy forehead.

Bal. Else flea the skin off.

Med. I ever knew thee valiant and to scorne

All acts of basenesse: I have seene this man

Write in the field such stories with his sword

That our best chiefetaines swore there was in
him

As 'twere a new Philosophy of fighting,

His deeds were so Puntillious. In one battell,

When death so nearly mist my ribs, he strucke

Three horses stone-dead under me: this man

¹ 'Estridge' is the common form of 'ostrich' among the Elizabethans (1 Henry IV., iv. 1, &c).

² " Poire d'angoisse. *A choke-Peare; or a wild soure Peare.*" Cotgrave.

308

Three times that day (even through the jaws of danger)

Redeem'd me up, and (I shall print it ever)

Stood o're my body with Colossus thighes

Whilst all the Thunder-bolts which warre could throw

Fell on his head; and, Baltazar, thou canst not

Be now but honest still and valiant still

Not to kill boyes and women.

Bal. My byter here eats no such meat.

Med. Goe, fetch the mark'd-out Lambe for slaughter hither;

Good fellow souldier, ayd him—and stay—marke,

Give this false fire to the beleeving King,

That the child's sent to heaven but that the mother

Stands rock'd so strong with friends ten thousand billowes

Cannot once shake her.

Bal. This I'le doe.

Med. Away;

Yet one word more; your Counsel, Noble friends;

Harke, Baltazar, because nor eyes nor tongues

Shall by loud Larums that the poore boy lives

Question thy false report, the child shall closely,

Mantled in darknesse, forthwith be conveyed

To the Monastery of Saint Paul.

Omnes. Good.

Med. Dispatch then; be quicke.

Bal. As Lightning.

Alb. This fellow is some Angell drop'd from heaven

To preserve Innocence.

Med. He is a wheele

Of swift and turbulent motion; I have trusted him,

Yet will not hang on him to many plummets

309

Lest with a headlong Cyre (Gyre?) he ruines all.

In these State-consternations, when a kingdome

Stands tottering at the Center, out of suspition

Safety growes often. Let us suspect this fellow;

And that, albeit he shew us the Kings hand,

It may be but a tricke.

Dæn. Your Lordship hits

A payson'd nayle i' th' head: this waxen fellow

(By the Kings hand so bribing him with gold)

Is set on skrews, perhaps is made his Creature

To turne round every way.

Med. Out of that feare

Will I beget truth; for my selfe in person

Will sound the Kings brest.

Carl. How ! your selfe in person.

Alb. That's half the prize he gapes for.

Med. I'le venture it,

And come off well, I warrant you, and rip up

His very entrailes, cut in two his heart

And search each corner in't; yet shall not he

Know who it is cuts up th' Anatomy.

Dæn, 'Tis an exploit worth wonder.

Carl. Put the worst;

Say some Infernall voyce shoo'd reore from hell

The Infant's cloystering up.

Alb. 'Tis not our danger

Nor the imprisonment Prince's, for what Theefe

Dares by base sacrilege rob the Church of him?

Carl. At worst none can be lost but this slight fellow.

Med. All build on this as on a stable Cube:

If we our footing keepe we fetch him forth

And Crowne him King; if up we fly i' th' ayre

We for his soules health a broad way prepare.

Dæn. They come.

310

Enter Baltazar and Sebastian.

Med. Thou knowest where
To bestow him, Baltazar.
Bal. Come Noble<sup>1</sup> Boy.
Alb. Hide him from being discovered.
Bal. Discover'd? woo'd there stood a troop of
Moores
Thrusting the pawes of hungry Lions forth
To seize this prey, and this but in my hand;
I should doe something.

Seb. Must I goe with this blacke fellow, Vncle ?

Med. Yes, pretty Coz; hence with him, Baltazar.

Bal. Sweet child, within few minutes I'll change
thy fate

And take thee hence, but set thee at heavens gate.
[Exeunt Bal. and Seb.

Med. Some keepe aloof and watch this Souldier.

Carl. I'le doo't.

Dæn. What's to be done now ?

Med. First to plant strong guard

About the mother, then into some snare

To hunt this spotted Panther and there kill him.

Dæn. What snares have we can hold him ?

Med. Be that care mine :

Dangers (like Starres) in darke attempts best shine.
[Exeunt.

(SCENE 2.)

Enter Cornego, Baltazar.

Cor. The Lady Onælia dresseth the stead² of her

¹ 4to. Moble.

² Quy. head.

311

 recommendations 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.¹

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

¹ "Prick-song"—"harmony written or pricked down, in opposition to plain-song, where the descant rested with the will of the singer." Chappell's *Popular Music*, &c., I. 51.

314

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 peeece.

*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

315

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
Coutrie 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. Onelia.*

*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 French-
man

Shall whet thee on, that if thy pistoll faile,

Or ponyard, this can send the poyson home.

*Bal.* Brother Cain, wee'll shake hands.

318

Bal. You Curre of Cerberus litter, (strikes him),
you'll poyson the honest Lady ? doe but once toot!
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

Toot'—to pry into: 'tooter' was formerly the name for
a 'tout' (vid. Todd's Johnson).

319

Many mens lives, and to the kingdome Minister
Most wholesome Surgery : here's our Aphorisme,¹—
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 sail.

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)

¹ 'Aphorisme. An Aphorisme (or generall rule in Physicke).' Cotgrave.

320

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) Onælia

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—

321

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.

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.

2 S