_Enter Medina, Alba and Daenia, met by Baltazar
with a Ponyard and a Pistoll_.
_Bal_. You meet a _Hydra_; 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-saile
In a most goodly ship wherein he ventures
His life, fortunes and honours, yet in a fury
Should hew the Mast downe, cast Sayles over-boord,
Fire all the Tacklings, and to crowne this madnesse
Shoo'd blow up all the Deckes, burne th'oaken ribbes
And in that Combat 'twixt two Elements
Leape 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 Spaine
For emptying a Court-Hogshead, but repeal'd
So I woo'd (e're my reeking Iron was cold)
Promise to give it a deepe crimson dye
In--none heare?--stay--no, none heare.
_Med_. Whom then?
_Bal_. Basely to stab a woman, your wrong'd Neece,
And her most innocent sonne _Sebastian_.
_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 to _Medina's_ house;
He taught me first the A, B, C of warre[203]
E're I was Truncheon-high I had the stile
Of beardlesse Captaine, writing then but boy:
And shall I now turne slave to him that fed me
With Cannon-bullets, and taught me, Estridge[204]-like,
To digest Iron and Steele? no: yet I yeelded
With willow-bendings to commanding breaths.
_Med_. Of whom?
_Bal_. Of King and Queene: with supple Hams
And an ill-boading looke I vow'd to doo't;
Yet, lest some choake-peare[205] of State-policy
Shoo'd stop my throat and spoyle my drinking-pipe,
See (like his cloake) I hung at the Kings elbow
Till 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, Noble _Baltazar_;
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 scorne
All acts of basenesse: I have seene this man
Write in the field such stories with his sword
That our best chiefetaines swore there was in him
As 'twere a new Philosophy of fighting,
His deeds were so Puntillious. In one battell,
When death so nearely mist my ribs, he strucke
Three horses stone-dead under me: this man
Three times that day (even through the jawes of danger)
Redeem'd me up, and (I shall print it ever)
Stood o're my body with _Colossus_ thighes
Whilst all the Thunder-bolts which warre could throw
Fell on his head; and, _Baltazar_, thou canst not
Be now but honest still and valiant still
Not 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 mother
Stands rock'd so strong with friends ten thousand billowes
Cannot once shake her.
_Bal_. This I'le doe.
_Med_. Away;
Yet one word more; your Counsel, Noble friends;
Harke, _Baltazar_, because nor eyes nor tongues
Shall by loud Larums that the poore boy lives
Question thy false report, the child shall closely,
Mantled in darknesse, forthwith be conveyed
To the Monastery of Saint _Paul_.
_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 wheele
Of swift and turbulent motion; I have trusted him,
Yet will not hang on him to many plummets
Lest with a headlong Cyre (Gyre?) he ruines all.
In these State-consternations, when a kingdome
Stands tottering at the Center, out of suspition
Safety 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 hits
A 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 Creature
To 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 up
His very entrailes, cut in two his heart
And search each corner in't; yet shall not he
Know 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 forth
And Crowne him King; if up we fly i'th ayre
We 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 Moores
Thrusting the pawes of hungry Lions forth
To 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_.
(SCENE 2.)
_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 that _Assa Fetida_ she 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 out _Solus 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 Cardinall _Alvarez_ Gallery,
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'd
Without the readers danger: 'tis indeed
A scare-crow set i'th world to fright weake fooles.
Hast thou seene fields pav'd o're with carkasses
Now to be tender-footed, not to tread
On 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 Doctor _Devile_.
_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 Frenchman
Shall whet thee on, that if thy pistoll faile,
Or ponyard, this can send the poyson home.
_Bal_. Brother _Cain_, 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 chime
In sounds harmonious. Merit to that man
Whose hand has but a finger in that act.
_Bal_. That musicke were worth hearing.
_King_. Holy Father,
You must give pardon to me in unlocking
A Cave stuft full with Serpents which my State
Threaten to poyson; and it lyes in you
To breake their bed with thunder of your voyce.
_Car_. How, princely sonne?
_King_. Suppose an universall
Hot Pestilence beat her mortiferous wings
Ore all my Kingdome, am I not bound in soule
To empty all our Achademes of Doctors
And Aesculapian Spirits to charme this plague?
_Car_. You are.
_King_. Or had the Canon made a breach
Into our rich Escuriall, down to beat it
About our eares, shoo'd I to stop this breach
Spare 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 strumpet
And bastard breathe quicke vengeance in my face,
Making my kingdome reele, my subjects stagger
In 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 knot
Tyed by heavens fingers! to make Spaine a Bonfire
To quench which must a second Deluge raine
In showres of blood, no water! If you doe this
There is an Arme Armipotent that can fling you
Into a base grave, and your Pallaces
With Lightning strike and of their Ruines make
A 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 of _Cerberus_ litter, (_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 Clocke
That e're to time paidst tribute, honest Souldier.
I lost mine owne shape and put on a French
Onely to try thy truth and the kings falshood,
Both which I find. Now this great Spanish volume
Is 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 laid
In such disguise to sound him; they that know
How to meet dangers are the lesse afraid:
Yet let me counsell you not to text downe
These wrongs in red lines.
_Med_. No, I will not, father:
Now that I have Anatomiz'd his thoughts
I'le read a lecture on 'em that shall save
Many mens lives, and to the kingdome Minister
Most 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 mischiefes _Hull_ with 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_.