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 makeTen 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 PoetHas fill'd me with a fury: I could writeStrange Satyrs now against AdulterersAnd 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 readyTo pay revenge his due.
Onae. That word RevengeStartles my sleepy Soule, now thoroughly wakendBy the fresh object of my haplesse childeWhose 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 careShoo'd they be ever happy; they are halfe godsWho 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 hereA promising face of manly princely vertues?And shall so sweet a plant be rooted outBy 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 SwordAnd 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 friendsBy 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 sheathYour 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 himTo cancell his late lawlesse bond he seal'dAt 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.
Enter King; Queen, Malateste, Valesco, Lopez.
King. The Presence doore be guarded; let none enterOn forfeit of your lives without our knowledge.Oh, you are false physitians all unto me,You bring me poyson but no antidotes.
Queen. Your selfe that poyson 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'sfaction preached it openly.
King. Be curst he and his Faction: oh, how I labourFor 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!
Mal. She playes true Musicke, Sir:The mischiefes you are drench'd in are so fullYou need not feare to add to 'em; since nowNo way is left to guard thy rest secureBut by a meanes like this.
Lop. All Spaine rings forthMedina'sname 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 brainesWhich 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?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 headFor all the Indian Treasury. I prethee tell me,Suppose thou hast our pardon, O, can that cureThy 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 bloodMay 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 lodgingStay 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.
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 inBaltazar.
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 bidMalatestebring The banish'dBaltazarto 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.
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 theeWhen 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 forItalianSteeletto's, I can be treacherous with theWallowne, drunke with theDutch, a Chimney-sweeper with theIrish, a Gentleman with theWelsh[202] and turne arrant theefe with theEnglish: 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.
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 shalt be call'd thy Countries PatriotFor quenching out a fire now newly kindlingIn factious bosomes; and shalt thereby saveMore Noble Spanyards lives than thou slew'st Moores.
Queen. Art thou not yet converted?
Bal. No point.
Queen. Read me then:Medina'sNeece, 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 openTo pay thy Noble darings.
Bal. Come, Ile doo't, provided I heareJovecall 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 QueeneHas importun'd thee to, touchingOnaelia(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, deareBaltazar.
Bal. Suppose I have your strongest pardon, can that cure my woundedConscience? can there your pardon help me? You not onely knocke theEwe a'th head, but cut the Innocent Lambes throat too: yet you are noButcher!
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 Indaean 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.
Enter Medina, Alba and Daenia, met by Baltazar with a Ponyard and a Pistoll.
Bal. You meet aHydra; 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.What woo'd you call that man, who under-saileIn a most goodly ship wherein he venturesHis life, fortunes and honours, yet in a furyShould hew the Mast downe, cast Sayles over-boord,Fire all the Tacklings, and to crowne this madnesseShoo'd blow up all the Deckes, burne th'oaken ribbesAnd in that Combat 'twixt two ElementsLeape 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 SpaineFor emptying a Court-Hogshead, but repeal'dSo I woo'd (e're my reeking Iron was cold)Promise to give it a deepe crimson dyeIn—none heare?—stay—no, none heare.
Med. Whom then?
Bal. Basely to stab a woman, your wrong'd Neece, And her most innocent sonneSebastian.
Alb. The Boare now foames with whetting.
Daen. What has blunted Thy weapons point at these?
Bal. My honesty,A signe at which few dwell, pure honesty.I am a vassaile toMedina'shouse;He taught me first the A, B, C of warre[203]E're I was Truncheon-high I had the stileOf beardlesse Captaine, writing then but boy:And shall I now turne slave to him that fed meWith Cannon-bullets, and taught me, Estridge[204]-like,To digest Iron and Steele? no: yet I yeeldedWith willow-bendings to commanding breaths.
Med. Of whom?
Bal. Of King and Queene: with supple HamsAnd an ill-boading looke I vow'd to doo't;Yet, lest some choake-peare[205] of State-policyShoo'd stop my throat and spoyle my drinking-pipe,See (like his cloake) I hung at the Kings elbowTill I had got his hand to signe my life.
Daen. 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, NobleBaltazar; 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 scorneAll acts of basenesse: I have seene this manWrite in the field such stories with his swordThat our best chiefetaines swore there was in himAs 'twere a new Philosophy of fighting,His deeds were so Puntillious. In one battell,When death so nearely mist my ribs, he struckeThree horses stone-dead under me: this manThree times that day (even through the jawes of danger)Redeem'd me up, and (I shall print it ever)Stood o're my body withColossusthighesWhilst all the Thunder-bolts which warre could throwFell on his head; and,Baltazar, thou canst notBe now but honest still and valiant stillNot 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 motherStands rock'd so strong with friends ten thousand billowesCannot once shake her.
Bal. This I'le doe.
Med. Away;Yet one word more; your Counsel, Noble friends;Harke,Baltazar, because nor eyes nor tonguesShall by loud Larums that the poore boy livesQuestion thy false report, the child shall closely,Mantled in darknesse, forthwith be conveyedTo the Monastery of SaintPaul.
Omnes. Good.
Med. Dispatch then; be quicke.
Bal. As Lightning. [Exit.
Alb. This fellow is some Angell drop'd from heaven To preserve Innocence.
Med. He is a wheeleOf swift and turbulent motion; I have trusted him,Yet will not hang on him to many plummetsLest with a headlong Cyre (Gyre?) he ruines all.In these State-consternations, when a kingdomeStands tottering at the Center, out of suspitionSafety growes often. Let us suspect this fellow;And that, albeit he shew us the Kings hand,It may be but a tricke.
Daen. Your Lordship hitsA poyson'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 CreatureTo 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 upHis very entrailes, cut in two his heartAnd search each corner in't; yet shall not heKnow who it is cuts up th'Anatomy.
Daen. 'Tis an exploit worth wonder.
Carl. Put the worst; Say some Infernall voyce shoo'd rore from hell The Infant's cloystering up.
Alb. 'Tis not our danger Nor the imprison'd 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 forthAnd Crowne him King; if up we fly i'th ayreWe for his soules health a broad way prepare.
Daen. They come.
Enter Baltazar and Sebastian.
Med. Thou knowest where To bestow him,Baltazar.
Bal. Come Noble[206] Boy.
Alb. Hide him from being discovered.
Bal. Discover'd? woo'd there stood a troope of MooresThrusting the pawes of hungry Lions forthTo 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'le 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.
Daen. 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.
Daen. What snares have we can hold him?
Med. Be that care mine: Dangers (like Starres) in darke attempts best shine.
[Exeunt.
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 thatAssa Fetidashe 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 outSolus 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 CardinallAlvarezGallery, 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'dWithout the readers danger: 'tis indeedA scare-crow set i'th world to fright weake fooles.Hast thou seene fields pav'd o're with carkassesNow to be tender-footed, not to treadOn 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 DoctorDevile.
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 FrenchmanShall whet thee on, that if thy pistoll faile,Or ponyard, this can send the poyson home.
Bal. BrotherCain, 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 chimeIn sounds harmonious. Merit to that manWhose hand has but a finger in that act.
Bal. That musicke were worth hearing.
King. Holy Father,You must give pardon to me in unlockingA Cave stuft full with Serpents which my StateThreaten to poyson; and it lyes in youTo breake their bed with thunder of your voyce.
Car. How, princely sonne?
King. Suppose an universallHot Pestilence beat her mortiferous wingsOre all my Kingdome, am I not bound in souleTo empty all our Achademes of DoctorsAnd Aesculapian Spirits to charme this plague?
Car. You are.
King. Or had the Canon made a breachInto our rich Escuriall, down to beat itAbout our eares, shoo'd I to stop this breachSpare 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 strumpetAnd bastard breathe quicke vengeance in my face,Making my kingdome reele, my subjects staggerIn 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 knotTyed by heavens fingers! to make Spaine a BonfireTo quench which must a second Deluge raineIn showres of blood, no water! If you doe thisThere is an Arme Armipotent that can fling youInto a base grave, and your PallacesWith Lightning strike and of their Ruines makeA 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 ofCerberuslitter, (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 ClockeThat e're to time paidst tribute, honest Souldier.I lost mine owne shape and put on a FrenchOnely to try thy truth and the kings falshood,Both which I find. Now this great Spanish volumeIs 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 laidIn such disguise to sound him; they that knowHow to meet dangers are the lesse afraid:Yet let me counsell you not to text downeThese wrongs in red lines.
Med. No, I will not, father:Now that I have Anatomiz'd his thoughtsI'le read a lecture on 'em that shall saveMany mens lives, and to the kingdome MinisterMost 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 mischiefesHullwith 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.
Enter King, Cardinall with letters, [Valasco and Lopez.]
King. Commend us toMedina, say his lettersRight 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 traineWaiting upon him; for, to quit all fearesVpon his side of us, our very CourtShall 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: seeLetters fromDuke Medina, both in the nameOf him and all his Faction, offering peace,And our old love (his Neece)OnaeliaIn Marriage with her free and faire consentToCockadillio, a Don of Spaine.
Lop. Will you refuse this?
King. My Crowne as soone: they feele their sinowy plotsBelike to shrinke i'th joynts, and fearing RuineHave 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 himThat first seiz'd on 'em. A poore prisoner scornesTo kisse his Jaylor; and shall a King be choak'dWith sweete-meats by false Traytors! no, I will fawneOn them as they stroake me, till they are fastBut in this paw, and then—
Lop. A brave revenge.— The Captaine of your Guard.
Enter Captaine.
King. Vpon thy lifeDouble our Guard this day, let every manBeare a charg'd Pistoll hid; and at a watch-wordGiven by a Musket, when our selfe sees Time,Rush in; and ifMedina'sFaction wrastleAgainst 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 GloveOr such prodigious signes of a knit Faction,Table their names up; at our Court-gate plantGood 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 withJudasand 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.
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'reSwallowing our offers into his empty bosomeAs gladly as the parched earth drinks healthsOut of the cup of heaven.
Carl. Little suspecting What dangers closely lye enambushed.
Daen. Let not us trust to that; there's in his brestBoth Fox and Lion, and both those beasts can bite:We must not now behold the narrowest loope-holeBut presently suspect a winged bulletFlyes whizzing by our eares.
Med. For when I letThe plummet fall to sound his very souleIn 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'smurder andSebastians.And thinke you his voyce alters now? 'Tis strangeTo see how brave this Tyrant shewes in Court,Throan'd like a god: great men are petty starresWhere his rayes shine; wonder fills up all eyesBy 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 retireInto 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 clayWithin 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 hersBut 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 SpaineOr else so long to wrap him up in cloudsTill all the fatall fires in him burne out,Leaving his State and conscience cleere from doubtOf 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 toBantam[217] in the West-Indies than once toBarathrumin 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.
Queen. Must then his Trul be once more sphear'd in CourtTo triumph in my spoyles, in my ecclipses?And I like moapingIunosit whilstIoveVaries his lust into five hundred shapesTo steale to his whores bed? No,Malateste;Italian fires of Iealousie burn my marrow:For to delude my hopes the leacherous KingCuts out this robe of cunning marriageTo cover his Incontinence, which flamesHot (as my fury) in his black desires.I am swolne big with child of vengeance now,And, till deliver'd, feele the throws of hell.
Mal. Iust is your Indignation, high and noble,And the brave heat of a true Florentine.For Spaine Trumpets abroad her InterestIn the Kings heart, and with a black cole drawesOn every wall your scoff'd at injuries.As one that has the refuse of her sheets,And the sick Autumne of the weakned King,Where she drunke pleasures up in the full spring.
Queen. That,Malateste, That, That Torrent wracks me;ButHymensTorch (held downe-ward) shall drop out,And for it the mad Furies swing their brandsAbout the Bride-chamber.
Mal. The Priest that joyns them Our Twin-borne malediction.
Queen. Lowd may it speake.
Mal. The herbs and flowers to strew the wedding way Be Cypresse, Eugh, cold Colloquintida.
Queen. Henbane and Poppey, and that magicall weed[218] Which Hags at midnight watch to catch the seed.
Mal. To these our execrations, and what mischiefeHell can but hatch in a distracted braineIle be the Executioner, tho it lookeSo horrid it can fright e'ne murder backe.
Queen. Poyson his whore to day, for thou shalt waitOn the Kings Cup, and when, heated with wine,He cals to drinke the Brides health, Marry herAlive to a gaping grave.
Mal. At board?
Queen. At board.
Mal. When she being guarded round about with friends, Like a faire Iland hem'd with Rocks and Seas,— What rescue shall I find?
Queen. Mine armes? dost faint?Stood all the Pyrenaean hills, that partSpaine and our Country, on each others shoulders,Burning with Aetnean flame, yet thou shouldst on,As being my steele of resolutionFirst striking sparkles from my flinty brest.Wert thou to catch the horses of the SunneFast by their bridles and to turne back day,Wood'st thou not doo't (base coward) to make wayTo the Italians second blisse, revenge?
Mal. Were my bones threatned to the wheele of torture, Ile doo't.
Enter Lopes.
Queen. A ravens voyce, and it likes me well.
Lop. The King expects your presence.
Mal. So, so, we come, To turne this Brides day to a day of doome.
[Exeunt.
A Banquet set out, Cornets sounding; Enter at one dore Lopez, Valasco, Alanzo, No: after them King, Cardinall, with Don Cockadillio, Bridegroome; Queene and Malateste after. At the other dore Alba, Carlo, Roderigo, Medina and Daenia, leading Onaelia as Bride, Cornego and Iuanna after; Baltazar alone; Bride and Bridegroome kisse, and by the Cardinall are join'd hand in hand: King is very merry, hugging Medina very lovingly.
King. For halfe Spaines weight in Ingots I'de not lose This little man to day.
Med. Nor for so muchTwice told, Sir, would I misse your kingly presence,Mine eyes have lost th'acquaintance of your faceSo long, and I so little late read o'reThat Index of the royall book your mind,That scarce (without your Comment) can I tellWhen in those leaves you turne o're smiles or frownes.
King. 'Tis dimnesse of your sight, no fault i'th letter;Medina, you shall find that free from Errata's:And for a proofe,If I could breath my heart in welcomes forth,This Hall should ring naught else. Welcome,Medina;Good MarquesseDaenia, Dons of Spaine all welcome!My dearest love and Queene, be it your placeTo entertaine the Bride and doe her grace.
Queen. With all the love I can, whose fire is such, To give her heat, I cannot burne too much.
King. Contracted Bride and Bridegroome sit;Sweet flowres not pluck'd in season lose their scent,So will our pleasures. Father Cardinall,Methinkes this morning new begins our reigne.
Car. Peace had her Sabbath ne're till now in Spaine.
King. Where is our noble Souldier,Baltazar? So close in conference with that Signior?
No. No.
King. What think'st thou of this great dayBaltazar?
Bal. Of this day? why, as of a new play, if it ends well all's well. All men are but Actors; now if you, being the King, should be out of your part, or the Queene out of hers or your Dons out of theirs, here's No wil never be out of his.
No. No.
Bal. 'Twere a lamentable peece of stuffe to see great Statesmen have vile Exits; but I hope there are nothing but plaudities in all your Eyes.
King. Mine, I protest, are free.
Queen. And mine, by heaven!
Mal. Free from one goode looke till the blow be given.
King. Wine; a full Cup crown'd toMedina'shealth!
Med. Your Highnesse this day so much honors me That I, to pay you what I truly owe, My life shall venture for it.
Daen. So shall mine.
King.Onaelia, you are sad: why frownes your brow?
Onae. A foolish memory of my past ills Folds up my looke in furrowes of old care, But my heart's merry, Sir.
King. Which mirth to heighten Your Bridegroome and your selfe first pledge this health Which we begin to our high Constable.
(Three Cups fild: 1 to the King, 2 to the Bridegroome, 3 to Onaelia, with whom the King complements.)
Queen. Is't speeding?
Mal. As all our Spanish figs[219] are.
King. Here's toMedina'sheart with all my heart.
Med. My hart shal pledge your hart i'th deepest draught That ever Spanyard dranke.
King.Medinamockes me Because I wrong her with the largest Bowle: Ile change with thee,Onaelia.
(Mal. rages)
Queen. Sir, you shall not.
King. Feare you I cannot fetch it off?
Queen.Malateste!
King. This is your scorne to her, because I am doing This poorest honour to her.—Musicke sound! It goes were it ten fadoms to the ground.
Cornets. King drinkes; Queen and Mal. storms.
Mal. Fate strikes with the wrong weapon.
Queen. Sweet royall Sir, no more: it is too deepe.
Mal. Twill hurt your health, Sir.
King. Interrupt me in my drinke! 'tis off.
Mal. Alas, Sir,You have drunke your last: that poyson'd bowle I fill'd,Not to be put into your hand but hers.
King. Poyson'd?
Omnes. Descend black speckled soule to hell. (kil Mal. dyes.)
Mal. The Queene has sent me thither?
Card. What new furie shakes now her snakes locks?
Queen. I, I, tis I, Whose soule is torne in peeces till I send This Harlot home.
Car. More Murders? save the lady.
Balt. Rampant? let the Constable make a mittimus.
Med. Keepe 'em asunder.
Car. How is it royall sonne?
King. I feele no poyson yet; only mine eyesAre putting out their lights: me thinks I feeleDeaths Icy fingers stroking downe my face;And now I'me in a mortall cold sweat.
Queen. Deare my Lord.
King. Hence! call in my Physicians.
Med. Thy Physician, Tyrant, Dwels yonder: call on him or none.
King. BloodyMedina! stab'st thou,Brutus, too?
Daen. As hee is so are we all.
King. I burne; My braines boyle in a Caldron: O, one drop Of water now to coole me!
Onae. Oh, let him have Physicians!
Med. Keepe her backe.
King. Physicians for my soule: I need none else.You'll not deny me those? Oh, holy Father,Is there no mercy hovering in a cloudFor me, a miserable King, so drench'dIn perjury and murder?
Car. Oh, Sir, great store.
King. Come downe, come quickly downe.
Car. I'll forthwith send For a grave Fryer to be your Confessor.
King. Doe, doe.
Car. And he shall cure your wounded soule: —Fetch him, good Souldier.
Bal. So good a work I'le hasten.
King.Onaelia! oh, shee's drown'd in tears.Onaelia! Let me not dye unpardoned at thy hands.
Enter Baltazar, Sebastian as a Fryer, with others.
Car. Here comes a better Surgeon.
Seb. Haile my good Sonne! I come to be thy ghostly Father.
King. Ha!My child? tis mySebastian, or some spiritSent in his shape to fright me.
Bal. 'Tis no gobling, Sir, feele: your owne flesh and blood, and much younger than you tho he be bald, and calls you son. Had I bin as ready to cut his sheeps throat as you were to send him to the shambles, he had bleated no more. There's lesse chalke upon you[r] score of sinnes by these round o'es.
King. Oh, my dul soule, looke up; thou art somewhat lighter. NobleMedina, see,Sebastianlives:Onaelia, cease to weepe,Sebastianlives. Fetch me my Crowne: my sweetest pretty Fryer, Can my hands doo't, He raise thee one step higher. Th'ast beene in heavens house all this while, sweet boy?