_Enter Baltazar, slighted by Dons_.
_Bal_. Thou god of good Apparell, what strange fellowes
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?[187] save thee, Illustrious Don.
_Enter Don Roderigo_.
Sir, is the king at leisure to speake Spanish
With a poore Souldier?
_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.
[_Exit_.
_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)
--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[188].
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, Cockadillio_.
_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 _Aeneas_-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 scaene; 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[189], 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,
Petronels, 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'd[190] rascals fought pell mell; here 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
carkasses, 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 yeelded; my hayres and oath
are of one length, for (with _Caesar_) 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.
(_Onaelia beats at the doore_.)
_Onae_. Let me come in! I'le 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.
_Onae_. I'le 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?
_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 kingdome at home?
_King_. What kingdome?
_Bal_. The fayrest in the world, the kingdom of your Fame, your honour.
_King_. Wherein?
_Bal_. I'le 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 clowds 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 Coelestis_, 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-point[191] with 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 shalt 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[192], 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 Cardinal, Roderigo, Alba,[193] Dania, Valasco_.
_King_. I find my Scepter shaken by enchantments
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 witnesse all
What here I cancell; read, doe you know this bond?
_Omnes_. Our hands are too't.
_Daen_. '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 _Daenia_,
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:
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 Daenia, Alba_.
_Daen_. 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?
_Daen_. 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?
_Daen_. And heaven with us to witnesse.
_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 Onaelia one way, Cornego another_.
_Cor_. Madam, there's a beare without to speake with you.
_Onae_. A Beare.
_Cor_. Its a Man all hairye and thats as bad.
_Onae_. Who ist?
_Cor_. Tis one Master Captaine _Baltazar_.
_Onae_. 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.
_Onae_. Let him come in.
_Enter Baltazar_.
_Cor_. Hist; a ducke, a ducke[194]; there she is, Sir.
_Bal_. A Souldiers good wish blesse you, Lady.
_Onae_. Good wishes are most welcome, Sir, to me;
So many bad ones blast me.
_Bal_. Doe you not know me?
_Onae_. 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.
_Onae_. 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?
_Onae_. 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?
_Onae_. Oh, I woo'd crowne him
With thanks, praise, gold, and tender of my life.
_Bal_. Shall I bee that Germane Fencer[195] and beat all the knocking
boyes before me? shall I kill him?
_Onae_. 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?
_Onae_. One step to humane blisse is sweet revenge.
_Bal_. Stay; what made you love him?
_Onae_. 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 Bastard[196] 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.
_Onae_. 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.
_Onae_. 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 perjurous Prince
Who has done wickednesse at which even heaven
Shakes when the Sunne beholds it; O yet I'de rather
Ten thousand poyson'd ponyards stab'd my brest
Then one should touch his: bloudy slave! I'le play
My selfe the Hangman and will Butcher thee
If thou but prick'st his finger.
_Bal_. Saist thou me so? give me thy goll[197], 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.
_Onae_. Art thou not counterfeit?
_Bal_. Now, by my skarres, I am not.
_Onae_. 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_.