_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.
_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 seemes 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--
Oh, pardon me if I must speake their language.
_Queen_. Say on.
_Mal_. That the most Catholike King in marrying you
Keepes you but as his whore.
_Queen_. Are we their Theames?
_Mal_. And that _Medina's_ Neece, _Onaelia_,
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
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 insnare 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, Onaelia_.
_Corn_. Here's a parcell of mans flesh has beene hanging up and downe
all this morning to speake with you.
_Onae_. Is't not some executioner?
_Corn_. I see nothing about him to hang in but's garters.
_Onae_. Sent from the king to warne me of my death:
I prethe bid him welcome.
_Cor_. He says he is a Poet.
_Onae_. Then bid him better welcome:
Belike he's come to write my Epitaph,--
Some[198] scurvy thing, I warrant: welcome, Sir.
_Enter Poet_.
_Poet_. Madam[199], my love presents this book unto you.
_Onae_. To me? I am not worthy of a line,
Vnlesse at that line hang some hooke to choake me.
'To the most honoured Lady--_Onaelia_'
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.
_Onae_. What does it treate of?
_Poet_. Of the sollemne Triumphs
Set forth at Coronation of the Queene.
_Onae_. Hissing (the Poets whirle-wind) blast thy lines!
Com'st thou to mocke my Tortures with her Triumphs?
_Poet_. 'Las, Madam!
_Onae_. 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_.
_Onae_. 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.
_Onae_. Doe it then for me.
_Poet_. And every line must be
A whip to draw blood.
_Onae_. Better.
_Poet_. And to dare
The stab from him it touches. He that writes
Such Libels (as you call 'em) must lance[200] 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.
_Onae_. Vndertake that Cure
And crowne thy verse with Bayes.
_Poet_. Madam, I'le doo't;
But I must have the parties Character.
_Onae_. 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
Sung to the Hanging Tune[201]. I dare not, Madam.
_Onae_. 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.
_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 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 Inflammation of the Livor,
it dyed of a burning Feaver.
_Onae_. What shall I doe, _Cornego_? for this Poet
Has fill'd me with a fury: I could write
Strange Satyrs now against Adulterers
And 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 ready
To pay revenge his due.
_Onae_. 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?
_Onae_. 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.
_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 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 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 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--
_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 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.
_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_.
(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 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'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!
_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?
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.
_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.
_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_ Steeletto's, I can be treacherous with the
_Wallowne_, drunke with the _Dutch_, a Chimney-sweeper with the _Irish_,
a Gentleman with the _Welsh_[202] 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.
_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 Patriot
For quenching out a fire now newly kindling
In factious bosomes; and shalt 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.
_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 _Onaelia_
(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 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 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_.