_King_. This creature; she has beauty to intice you
And enough to feast you all; seize her all three
And ravish her by turnes.
_Slaves_. A match.
[_They dance antiquely, and Exeunt_.
_King_. Hang up these slaves; I am mock't by her and them;
They dance me into anger. Heard you not musicke?
_Anton_. Yes, sure, and most sweet melody.
_Vict_. 'Tis the heavens play
And the Clowdes dance for ioy thy cruelty
Has not tane hold upon me.
_King_. Hunger then shall:
Leade them away, dragge her to some loathed dungeon
And for three days give her no food.
Load her with Irons.
_Epi_. They shall.
_Eugen_. Come, fellow souldiers, halfe the fight is past:
The bloodiest battell comes to an end at last.
[_Exeunt_.
_Actus Quintus_.
_Enter Epidophorus and Clowne_.
_Epi_. Have any Christian soule broke from my Iayle
This night, and gone i'the dark to find out heaven?
Are any of my hated prisoners dead?
_Clown_. Dead? yes; and five more come into the world instead of one.
These Christians are like Artichoaks of _Jerusalam_; they over-runne
any ground they grow in.
_Epi_. Are they so fruitfull?
_Clown_. Fruitfull! a Hee Christian told me that amongst them the young
fellowes are such Earing rioted[173] Rascals that they will runne into
the parke of Matrimony at sixteene; are Bucks of the first head at
eighteenes and by twenty carry in some places their hornes on their
backs.
_Epi_. On their backs? What kind of Christians are they?
_Clown_. Marry, these are Christian Butchers, who when their Oxen are
flead throw their skinnes on their shoulders.
_Epi_. I thought they had beene Cuckolds.
_Clown_. Amongst them? no; there's no woman, that's a true Christian,
will horne her husband. There dyed to night no lesse than six and a
halfe in our Iayle.
_Epi_. How? six and a halfe?
_Clown_. One was a girle of thirteene, with child.
_Epi_. Thy tidings fats me.
_Clown_. You may have one or two of 'em drest to your Dinner to make
you more fat.
_Epi_. Unhallowed slave! let a _Jew_ eate Pork, when
I but touch a Christian.
_Clown_. You are not of my dyet: Would I had a young Loyne of Porke to
my Supper, and two Loynes of a pretty sweate Christian after Supper.
_Epi_. Would thou mightst eate and choake.
_Clown_. Never at such meate; it goes downe without chawing.
_Epi_. We have a taske in hand, to kill a Serpent
Which spits her poyson in our kingdomes face.
And that we speake not of (?); lives still
That Witch _Victoria_, wife to _Bellizarius_?
Is Death afraid to touch the Hagge? does hunger
Tremble to gnaw her flesh off, dry up her blood
And make her eate her selfe in Curses, ha?
_Clown_. Ha? your mouth gapes as if you would eate me. The King
commanded she should be laden with Irons,--I have laid two load upon
her; then to pop her into the Dungeon,--I thrust her downe as deepe as
I could; then to give her no meate,--alas my cheekes cry out, I have
meate little enough for my selfe. Three days and three nights has her
Cupboard had no victuals in it; I saw no lesse than Fifty sixe Mice
runne out of the hole she lies in, and not a crumme of bread or bit of
cheese amongst them.
_Epi_. 'Tis the better.
_Clown_. I heard her one morning cough pittifully; upon which I gave her
a messe of Porredge piping-hot.
_Epi_. Thou Dog, 'tis Death.
_Clown_. Nay but, Sir, I powr'd 'em downe scalding as they were on her
head, because they say they are good for a cold, and I thinke that
kill'd her; for to try if she were alive or no I did but even now tye a
Crust to a packe-threed on a pinne, but shee leapt not at it; so that I
am sure shee's worms meate by this.
_Epi_. Rewards in golden showers shall raine upon us,
Be thy words true: fall downe and kisse the earth.
_Clown_. Kisse earth? Why? and so many wenches come to the Iayle?
_Epi_. Slave, downe and clap thy eare to the caves mouth
And make me glad or heavy; if she speake not
I shall cracke my ribs and spend my spleene in laughter;
But if thou hear'st her pant I am gon.
_Clown_. Farewell, then.
_Epi_. Breaths shee?
_Clown_. No, Sir; her winde instrument is out of tune.
_Epi_. Call, cal.
_Clown_. Do you heare, you low woman? hold not downe your head so for
shame; creepe not thus into a corner, no honest woman loves to be
fumbling thus in the darke. Hang her; she has no tongue.
_Epi_. Would twenty thousand of their sexe had none.
_Clown_. Foxe, foxe, come out of your hole.
_An Angel ascends from the cave, singing_.
_Epi_. Horrour! what's this?
_Clown_. Alas, I know not what my selfe am.