_Enter King, Cardinall with letters_, [_Valasco and Lopez_.]
_King_. Commend us to _Medina_, say his letters
Right pleasing are, and that (except himselfe)
Nothing could be more welcome: counsell him
(To blot the opinion out of factious numbers)
Onely to have his ordinary traine
Waiting upon him; for, to quit all feares
Vpon his side of us, our very Court
Shall even but dimly shine with some few Dons,
Freely to prove our longings great to peace.
_Car_. The Constable expects some pawne from you
That in this Fairy circle shall rise up
No Fury to confound his Neece nor him.
_King_. A King's word is engag'd.
_Car_. It shall be taken. [_Exit_.
_King_. _Valasco_, call the Captaine of our Guard,
Bid him attend us instantly.
_Val_. I shall. [_Exit_.
_King_. _Lopez_, come hither: see
Letters from _Duke Medina_, both in the name
Of him and all his Faction, offering peace,
And our old love (his Neece) _Onaelia_
In Marriage with her free and faire consent
To _Cockadillio_, a Don of Spaine.
_Lop_. Will you refuse this?
_King_. My Crowne as soone: they feele their sinowy plots
Belike to shrinke i'th joynts, and fearing Ruine
Have found this Cement out to piece up all,
Which more endangers all.
_Lop_. How, Sir! endangers?
_King_. Lyons may hunted be into the snare,
But if they once breake loose woe be to him
That first seiz'd on 'em. A poore prisoner scornes
To kisse his Jaylor; and shall a King be choak'd
With sweete-meats by false Traytors! no, I will fawne
On them as they stroake me, till they are fast
But in this paw, and then--
_Lop_. A brave revenge.--
The Captaine of your Guard.
_Enter Captaine_.
_King_. Vpon thy life
Double our Guard this day, let every man
Beare a charg'd Pistoll hid; and at a watch-word
Given by a Musket, when our selfe sees Time,
Rush in; and if _Medina's_ Faction wrastle
Against your forces, kill; but if yeeld, save.
Be secret.
_Alanz_. I am charm'd, Sir.
[_Exit_.
_King_. Watch, _Valasco_;
If any weare a Crosse, Feather or Glove
Or such prodigious signes of a knit Faction,
Table their names up; at our Court-gate plant
Good strength to barre them out if once they swarme:
Doe this upon thy life.
_Val_. Not death shall fright me.
[_Exeunt Valasco and Lopez_.
_Enter Baltazar_.
_Bal_. 'Tis done, Sir.
_King_. Death! what's done?
_Bal_. Young Cub's flayd,
But the shee-fox shifting her hole is fled;
The little Iackanapes the boy's braind.
_King_. _Sebastian_?
_Bal_. He shall ne're speake more Spanish.
_King_. Thou teachest me to curse thee.
_Bal_. For a bargaine you set your hand to?
_King_. Halfe my Crowne I'de lose were it undone.
_Bal_. But half a Crowne? that's nothing:
His braines sticke in my conscience more than yours.
_King_. How lost I the French Doctor?
_Bal_. As French-men lose their haire: here was too hot staying for him.
_King_. Get thou, too, from my sight: the Queen wu'd see thee.
_Bal_. Your gold, Sir.
_King_. Goe with _Judas_ and repent.
_Bal_. So men hate whores after lusts heat is spent; I'me gone, Sir.
_King_. Tell me true,--is he dead?
_Bal_. Dead.
_King_. No matter; 'tis but morning of revenge;
The Sun-set shall be red and Tragicall. [_Exit_.
_Bal_. Sinne is a Raven croaking[214] her owne fall.
[_Exit_.
(SCENE 2.)
_Enter Medina, Daenia, Alba, Carlo and the Faction,
with Rosemary in their hats_.
_Med_. Keepe lock'd the doore and let none enter to us
But who shares in our fortunes.
_Daen_. Locke the dores.
_Alb_. What entertainment did the King bestow
Vpon your letters and the Cardinals?
_Med_. With a devouring eye he read 'em o're
Swallowing our offers into his empty bosome
As gladly as the parched earth drinks healths
Out of the cup of heaven.
_Carl_. Little suspecting
What dangers closely lye enambushed.
_Daen_. Let not us trust to that; there's in his brest
Both Fox and Lion, and both those beasts can bite:
We must not now behold the narrowest loope-hole
But presently suspect a winged bullet
Flyes whizzing by our eares.
_Med_. For when I let
The plummet fall to sound his very soule
In his close-chamber, being French-Doctor-like,
He to the Cardinals eare sung sorcerous notes;
The burthen of his song to mine was death,
_Onaelia's_ murder and _Sebastians_.
And thinke you his voyce alters now? 'Tis strange
To see how brave this Tyrant shewes in Court,
Throan'd like a god: great men are petty starres
Where his rayes shine; wonder fills up all eyes
By sight of him: let him but once checke sinne,
About him round all cry "oh excellent king!
Oh Saint-like man!" but let this King retire
Into his Closet to put off his robes,
He like a Player leaves his parte off, too:
Open his brest and with a Sunne-beame search it,
There's no such man; this King of gilded clay
Within is uglinesse, lust, treachery,
And a base soule tho reard Colossus-high.
(_Baltazar beats to come in_.)
_Daen_. None till he speakes and that we know his voyce:
Who are you?
_Within Bal_. An honest house-keeper in Rosemary-lane, too,
If you dwell in the same parish.
_Med_. Oh 'tis our honest Souldier, give him entrance.
_Enter Baltazar_.
_Bal_. Men show like coarses[215] for I meet few but are stuck with
Rosemary: everyone ask'd mee who was married to-day, and I told 'em
Adultery and Repentance, and that shame and a Hangman followed 'em
to Church.
_Med_. There's but two parts to play: shame has done hers
But execution must close up the Scaene,
And for that cause these sprigs are worne by all,
Badges of Mariage, now of Funerall,
For death this day turns Courtier.
_Bal_. Who must dance with him?
_Med_. The King, and all that are our opposites;
That dart or this must flye into the Court,
Either to shoote this blazing starre from Spaine
Or else so long to wrap him up in clouds
Till all the fatall fires in him burne out,
Leaving his State and conscience cleere from doubt
Of following uprores.
_Alb_. Kill not but surprize him.
_Carl_. Thats my voyce still.
_Med_. Thine, Souldier.
_Bal_. Oh, this Collicke of a kingdome! when the wind of treason gets
amongst the small guts, what a rumbling and a roaring it keepes! and
yet, make the best of it you can, it goes out stinking. Kill a King!
King!
_Daen_. Why?
_Bal_. If men should pull the Sun out of heaven every time 'tis
ecclips'd, not all the Wax nor Tallow in Spaine woo'd serve to make
us Candles for one yeare.
_Med_. No way to purge the sicke State but by opening a veine.
_Bal_. Is that your French Physicke? if every one of us shoo'd be
whip'd according to our faults, to be lasht at a carts taile would be
held but a flea-biting.
_Enter Signeor No:[216] Whispers Medina_.
_Med_. What are you? come you from the King?
_No_. No.
_Bal_. No? more no's? I know him, let him enter.
_Med_. Signeor, I thanke your kind Intelligence.
The newes long since was sent into our eares,
Yet we embrace your love; so fare you well.
_Carl_. Will you smell to a sprig of Rosemary?
_No_. No.
_Bal_. Will you be hang'd?
_No_. No.
_Bal_. This is either Signeor No, or no Signeor.
_Med_. He makes his love to us a warning-peece
To arme our selves against we come to Court,
Because the guard is doubled.
_Omnes_. Tush, we care not.
_Bal_. If any here armes his hand to cut off the head, let him first
plucke out my throat. In any Noble Act Ile wade chin-deepe with you:
but to kill a King!
_Med_. No, heare me--
_Bal_. You were better, my Lord, saile 500 times to _Bantam_[217] in
the West-Indies than once to _Barathrum_ in the Low-Countries. It's
hot going under the line there; the Callenture of the soule is a most
miserable madnesse.
_Med_. Turne, then, this wheele of Fate from shedding blood,
Till with her owne hand Iustice weyes all.
_Bal_. Good.
[_Exeunt_.
(SCENE 3.)
_Queen_. Must then his Trul be once more sphear'd in Court
To triumph in my spoyles, in my ecclipses?
And I like moaping _Iuno_ sit whilst _Iove_
Varies his lust into five hundred shapes
To steale to his whores bed? No, _Malateste_;
Italian fires of Iealousie burn my marrow:
For to delude my hopes the leacherous King
Cuts out this robe of cunning marriage
To cover his Incontinence, which flames
Hot (as my fury) in his black desires.
I am swolne big with child of vengeance now,
And, till deliver'd, feele the throws of hell.
_Mal_. Iust is your Indignation, high and noble,
And the brave heat of a true Florentine.
For Spaine Trumpets abroad her Interest
In the Kings heart, and with a black cole drawes
On every wall your scoff'd at injuries.
As one that has the refuse of her sheets,
And the sick Autumne of the weakned King,
Where she drunke pleasures up in the full spring.
_Queen_. That, _Malateste_, That, That Torrent wracks me;
But _Hymens_ Torch (held downe-ward) shall drop out,
And for it the mad Furies swing their brands
About the Bride-chamber.
_Mal_. The Priest that joyns them
Our Twin-borne malediction.
_Queen_. Lowd may it speake.
_Mal_. The herbs and flowers to strew the wedding way
Be Cypresse, Eugh, cold Colloquintida.
_Queen_. Henbane and Poppey, and that magicall weed[218]
Which Hags at midnight watch to catch the seed.
_Mal_. To these our execrations, and what mischiefe
Hell can but hatch in a distracted braine
Ile be the Executioner, tho it looke
So horrid it can fright e'ne murder backe.
_Queen_. Poyson his whore to day, for thou shalt wait
On the Kings Cup, and when, heated with wine,
He cals to drinke the Brides health, Marry her
Alive to a gaping grave.
_Mal_. At board?
_Queen_. At board.
_Mal_. When she being guarded round about with friends,
Like a faire Iland hem'd with Rocks and Seas,--
What rescue shall I find?
_Queen_. Mine armes? dost faint?
Stood all the Pyrenaean hills, that part
Spaine and our Country, on each others shoulders,
Burning with Aetnean flame, yet thou shouldst on,
As being my steele of resolution
First striking sparkles from my flinty brest.
Wert thou to catch the horses of the Sunne
Fast by their bridles and to turne back day,
Wood'st thou not doo't (base coward) to make way
To the Italians second blisse, revenge?
_Mal_. Were my bones threatned to the wheele of torture,
Ile doo't.
_Enter Lopes_.
_Queen_. A ravens voyce, and it likes me well.
_Lop_. The King expects your presence.
_Mal_. So, so, we come,
To turne this Brides day to a day of doome.
[_Exeunt_.
(SCENE 4.)
_A Banquet set out, Cornets sounding; Enter at one
dore Lopez, Valasco, Alanzo, No: after them King,
Cardinall, with Don Cockadillio, Bridegroome;
Queene and Malateste after. At the other dore
Alba, Carlo, Roderigo, Medina and Daenia, leading
Onaelia as Bride, Cornego and Iuanna after;
Baltazar alone; Bride and Bridegroome kisse,
and by the Cardinall are join'd hand in hand:
King is very merry, hugging Medina very lovingly_.
_King_. For halfe Spaines weight in Ingots I'de not lose
This little man to day.
_Med_. Nor for so much
Twice told, Sir, would I misse your kingly presence,
Mine eyes have lost th'acquaintance of your face
So long, and I so little late read o're
That Index of the royall book your mind,
That scarce (without your Comment) can I tell
When in those leaves you turne o're smiles or frownes.
_King_. 'Tis dimnesse of your sight, no fault i'th letter;
_Medina_, you shall find that free from Errata's:
And for a proofe,
If I could breath my heart in welcomes forth,
This Hall should ring naught else. Welcome, _Medina_;
Good Marquesse _Daenia_, Dons of Spaine all welcome!
My dearest love and Queene, be it your place
To entertaine the Bride and doe her grace.
_Queen_. With all the love I can, whose fire is such,
To give her heat, I cannot burne too much.
_King_. Contracted Bride and Bridegroome sit;
Sweet flowres not pluck'd in season lose their scent,
So will our pleasures. Father Cardinall,
Methinkes this morning new begins our reigne.
_Car_. Peace had her Sabbath ne're till now in Spaine.
_King_. Where is our noble Souldier, _Baltazar_?
So close in conference with that Signior?
_No_. No.
_King_. What think'st thou of this great day _Baltazar_?
_Bal_. Of this day? why, as of a new play, if it ends well all's well.
All men are but Actors; now if you, being the King, should be out of
your part, or the Queene out of hers or your Dons out of theirs, here's
No wil never be out of his.
_No_. No.
_Bal_. 'Twere a lamentable peece of stuffe to see great Statesmen
have vile Exits; but I hope there are nothing but plaudities in all
your Eyes.
_King_. Mine, I protest, are free.
_Queen_. And mine, by heaven!
_Mal_. Free from one goode looke till the blow be given.
_King_. Wine; a full Cup crown'd to _Medina's_ health!
_Med_. Your Highnesse this day so much honors me
That I, to pay you what I truly owe,
My life shall venture for it.
_Daen_. So shall mine.
_King_. _Onaelia_, you are sad: why frownes your brow?
_Onae_. A foolish memory of my past ills
Folds up my looke in furrowes of old care,
But my heart's merry, Sir.
_King_. Which mirth to heighten
Your Bridegroome and your selfe first pledge this health
Which we begin to our high Constable.
(_Three Cups fild: 1 to the King, 2 to the Bridegroome,
3 to Onaelia, with whom the King complements_.)
_Queen_. Is't speeding?
_Mal_. As all our Spanish figs[219] are.
_King_. Here's to _Medina's_ heart with all my heart.
_Med_. My hart shal pledge your hart i'th deepest draught
That ever Spanyard dranke.
_King_. _Medina_ mockes me
Because I wrong her with the largest Bowle:
Ile change with thee, _Onaelia_.
(_Mal. rages_)
_Queen_. Sir, you shall not.
_King_. Feare you I cannot fetch it off?
_Queen_. _Malateste_!
_King_. This is your scorne to her, because I am doing
This poorest honour to her.--Musicke sound!
It goes were it ten fadoms to the ground.
_Cornets. King drinkes; Queen and Mal. storms_.
_Mal_. Fate strikes with the wrong weapon.
_Queen_. Sweet royall Sir, no more: it is too deepe.
_Mal_. Twill hurt your health, Sir.
_King_. Interrupt me in my drinke! 'tis off.
_Mal_. Alas, Sir,
You have drunke your last: that poyson'd bowle I fill'd,
Not to be put into your hand but hers.
_King_. Poyson'd?
_Omnes_. Descend black speckled soule to hell.
(_kil Mal. dyes_.)
_Mal_. The Queene has sent me thither?
_Card_. What new furie shakes now her snakes locks?
_Queen_. I, I, tis I,
Whose soule is torne in peeces till I send
This Harlot home.
_Car_. More Murders? save the lady.
_Balt_. Rampant? let the Constable make a mittimus.
_Med_. Keepe 'em asunder.
_Car_. How is it royall sonne?
_King_. I feele no poyson yet; only mine eyes
Are putting out their lights: me thinks I feele
Deaths Icy fingers stroking downe my face;
And now I'me in a mortall cold sweat.
_Queen_. Deare my Lord.
_King_. Hence! call in my Physicians.
_Med_. Thy Physician, Tyrant,
Dwels yonder: call on him or none.
_King_. Bloody _Medina_! stab'st thou, _Brutus_, too?
_Daen_. As hee is so are we all.
_King_. I burne;
My braines boyle in a Caldron: O, one drop
Of water now to coole me!
_Onae_. Oh, let him have Physicians!
_Med_. Keepe her backe.
_King_. Physicians for my soule: I need none else.
You'll not deny me those? Oh, holy Father,
Is there no mercy hovering in a cloud
For me, a miserable King, so drench'd
In perjury and murder?
_Car_. Oh, Sir, great store.
_King_. Come downe, come quickly downe.
_Car_. I'll forthwith send
For a grave Fryer to be your Confessor.
_King_. Doe, doe.
_Car_. And he shall cure your wounded soule:
--Fetch him, good Souldier.
_Bal_. So good a work I'le hasten.
_King_. _Onaelia_! oh, shee's drown'd in tears. _Onaelia_!
Let me not dye unpardoned at thy hands.
_Enter Baltazar, Sebastian as a Fryer, with others_.
_Car_. Here comes a better Surgeon.
_Seb_. Haile my good Sonne!
I come to be thy ghostly Father.
_King_. Ha!
My child? tis my _Sebastian_, or some spirit
Sent in his shape to fright me.
_Bal_. 'Tis no gobling, Sir, feele: your owne flesh and blood, and much
younger than you tho he be bald, and calls you son. Had I bin as ready
to cut his sheeps throat as you were to send him to the shambles, he
had bleated no more. There's lesse chalke upon you[r] score of sinnes
by these round o'es.
_King_. Oh, my dul soule, looke up; thou art somewhat lighter.
Noble _Medina_, see, _Sebastian_ lives:
_Onaelia_, cease to weepe, _Sebastian_ lives.
Fetch me my Crowne: my sweetest pretty Fryer,
Can my hands doo't, He raise thee one step higher.
Th'ast beene in heavens house all this while, sweet boy?
_Seb_. I had but coarse cheere.
_King_. Thou couldst nere fare better:
Religious houses are those hyves where Bees
Make honey for mens soules. I tell thee, Boy,
A Fryery is a Cube which strongly stands,
Fashioned by men, supported by heavens hands:
Orders of holy Priest-hood are as high,
I'th eyes of Angels, as a Kings dignity.
Both these unto a Crowne give the full weight,
And both are thine: you that our Contract know,
See how I scale it with this Marriage;
My blessing and Spaines kingdome both be thine.
_Omnes_. Long live _Sebastian_!
_Onae_. Doff that Fryers course gray,
And since hee's crown'd a king, clothe him like one.
_King_. Oh no; those are right Soveraigne Ornaments:
Had I been cloth'd so I had never fill'd
Spaine's Chronicle with my blacke Calumny.
My worke is almost finish'd: where's my Queene?
_Queen_. Heere, peece-meale torne by Furies.
_King_. _Onaelia_!
Your hand, _Paulina_, too; _Onaelia_, yours:
This hand (the pledge of my twice broken faith),
By you usurp'd, is her Inheritance.
My love is turn'd, see, as my fate is turn'd:
Thus they to day laugh, yesterday which mourn'd:
I pardon thee my death. Let her be sent
Backe into Florence with a trebled dowry.
Death comes: oh, now I see what late I fear'd;
A Contract broke, tho piec'd up ne're so well,
Heaven sees, earth suffers, but it ends in hell.
(_Moritur_.)
_Onae_. Oh, I could dye with him!
_Queen_. Since the bright spheare
I mov'd in falls, alas, what make I here?
[_Exit_.
_Med_. The hammers of blacke mischiefe now cease beating,
Yet some irons still are heating. You, Sir Bridegroome,
(Set all this while up as a marke to shoot at)
We here discharge you of your bed fellow:
She loves no Barbars washing.
_Cock_. My Balls are sav'd then.
_Med_. Be it your charge, so please you, reverend Sir,
To see the late Queene safely sent to Florence:
My Neece _Onaelia_, and that trusty Souldier,
We doe appoint to guard the infant King.
Other distractions Time must reconcile;
The State is poyson'd like a Crocodile.
[_Exeunt_.