Answ. _Never, never, never, never,
Never till she finds a grave_.
_Enter Cornego_.
_Corn_. No lesson, Madam, but Lacrymae's?[182] 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 thanke you. Come,
be joviall.
_Onae_. Sorrow becomes me best.
_Corn_. A suit of laugh and lye downe[183] would weare better.
_Onae_. What should I doe to be merry, _Cornego_?
_Corn_. Be not sad.
_Onae_. 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.
_Onae_. 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 shalt 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.
_Onae_. Say on.
_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 soere 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.
_Onae_. These to such soules are mirth, but to mine none: Away!
[_Exit Corn_.
_Enter Cardinall_.
_Car_. Peace to you, Lady.
_Onae_. 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.
_Onae_. What _Aesculapius_ can doe this?
_Card_. The King--'tis from the King I come.
_Onae_. A name I hate:
Oh I am deafe now to your Embassie.
_Card_. Heare what I speake.
_Onae_. Your language, breath'd from him,
Is deaths sad doome upon a wretch condemn'd.
_Car_. Is it such poyson?
_Onae_. 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
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 conscience
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.
_Onae_. 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.
_Onae_. I'le drinke it downe into my soule at once.
_Car_. You shall.
_Onae_. But sweare.
_Car_. What conjurations can more bind mine oath?
_Onae_. But did you sweare in earnest?
_Car_. Come, you trifle.
_Onae_. No marvell, for my hopes have bin so drown'd
I still despaire. Say on.
_Car_. The King repents.
_Onae_. Pray, that agen, my Lord.
_Car_. The King repents.
_Onae_. His wrongs to me?
_Car_. His wrongs to you: the sense
Of sinne has pierc'd his soule.
_Onae_. Blest penitence!
_Car_. 'Has turn'd his eyes[184] into his leprous bosome,
And like a King vowes execution
On all his traiterous passions.
_Onae_. God-like Justice!
_Car_. Intends in person presently to begge
Forgivenesse for his Acts of heaven and you.
_Onae_. Heaven pardon him; I shall.
_Car_. Will marry you.
_Onae_. 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?
_Onae_. 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_.
_Onae_. 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!
_Onae_. 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
Griefe like my shame, whose length may outlive Time:
This Crosse the object of my wounded soule,
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?
_Onae_. 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.
_Onae_. 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 scale our Nuptials;
To prive[185] thy sonne, with full consent of State,
Spaines heire Apparant, borne in wedlock vowes.
_Onae_. And will you sweare to this?
_King_. By this I sweare.
_Onae_. Oh you have sworne false oathes upon that booke.
_King_. Why, then by this.
_Onae_. Take heed you print it deeply.
How for your concubine (Bride, I cannot say)?
She staines 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?
_Onae_. 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.
_Onae_. 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
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.
_Onae_. Defend me, heaven!
_King_. Pray there may come Embassadors from _France_:
Their followers are good Customers.
_Onae_. Save me from madnesse!
_King_. 'Twill raise the price being the Kings Mistris.
_Onae_. You doe but counterfeit to mocke my joyes.
_King_. Away, bold strumpet.
_Onae_. Are there eyes in heaven to see this?
_King_. Call and try: here's a whore 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?
_Onae_. Ha! where is the King, thou slave?
_Corn_. Let go your hold or I'le fall upon you, as I am a man.
_Onae_. Thou treacherous caitiffe, where's the King?
_Corn_. Hee's gone, but no so farre gone as you are.
_Onae_. 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.
_Onae_. Is there a vengeance
Yet lacking to my ruine? let it fall,
Now let it fall upon me!
_Corn_. No, there has too much falne upon you already.
_Onae_. 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.
_Onae_. 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_.
_Onae_. Attir'd in robes of vengeance are you, Uncle?
_Med_. More horrors yet?
_Onae_. 'Twas never full till now:
And in this torrent all my hopes lye drown'd.
_Med_. Instruct me in this cause.
_Onae_. 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_.
_Actus Secundus_.