(They binde him to a stake, and fetch stones in baskets.)

_Omnes. When?

King. Now, here presently.

Eugen. Ingratefull man!

King. Dispatch, his voyce is horrid in our eares; Kill him, hurle all, and in him kill my feares.

Eugen. I would thy feares were ended.

King. Why thus delay you?

Dam. The stones are soft as spunges.

Anton. Not any stone here Can raze his skin.

Dam. See, Sir.

Cosmo. Thankes, heavenly preservation.

King. Mockt by a hell-hound!

Omnes. This must not be endur'd, Sir.

King. Unbinde the wretch; Naile him to the earth with Irons. Cannot death strike him? New studied tortures shall.

Eugen. New tortures bring, They all to me are but a banquetting. [Exit.

Anton. But are you well, indeed, Sir?

King. Passing well: Though my Physitian fetcht the cure from hell; All's one, I am glad I have it.

[Exeunt.



Actus Quartus.

Enter Antony, Cosmo, Hubert, and Damianus.

Anton. You, noble Hubert, are the man[164] chosen out From all our Vandal Leaders to be chiefe O'er a new army, which the King will raise To roote out from our land these Christians That over-runne us.

Cosmo. 'Tis a glory, Hubert, Will raise your fame and make you like our gods, To please whom you must do this.

Dam. And in doing Be active as the fire and mercilesse As is the boundlesse Ocean when it swallows Whole Townes and of them leaves no Monuments.

Hub. When shall mine eyes be happy in the sight Of this brave Pagentry?

Cosmo. The King sayes instantly.

Hub. And must I be the Generall?

Omnes. Onely you.

Hub. I shall not then at my returning home Have sharers in my great acts: to the Volume My Sword in bloody Letters shall text downe No name must stand but mine; no leafe turn'd o'er But Huberts workes are read and none but mine. Bellizarius shall not on his Clouds of fire Fly flaming round about the staring World Whilst I creepe on the earth. Flatter me not: Am I to goe indeed?

Anton. The King so sweares.

Hub. A Kings word is a Statute graven in Brasse, And if he breakes that Law I will in Thunder Rouze his cold spirit. I long to ride in Armour, And looking round about me to see nothing But Seas and shores, the Seas of Christians blood, The shoares tough Souldiers. Here a wing flies out Soaring at Victory; here the maine Battalia Comes up with as much horrour and hotter terrour As if a thick-growne Forrest by enchantment Were made to move, and all the Trees should meete Pell mell, and rive their beaten bulkes in sunder, As petty Towers doe being flung downe by Thunder. Pray, thanke the King, and tell him I am ready To cry a charge; tell him I shall not sleepe Till that which wakens Cowards, trembling with feare, Startles me, and sends brave Musick to mine eare; And that's the Drumme and Trumpet.

Ant. This shall be told him.

Dam. And all the Goths and Vandalls shall strike Heaven With repercussive Ecchoes of your name, Crying, a Hubert!

Hub. Deafe me with that sound: A Souldier, though he falls in the Field, lives crown'd.

Cosmo. Wee'le to the King and tell him this.

[Exeunt.

Enter Bellina.

Hub. Doe.—Oh, my Bellina, If ever, make me happy now; now tye Strong charmes about my full-plum'd Burgonet To bring me safe home. I must to the Warres.

Bellina. What warres? we have no warres but in our selves; We fighting with our sinnes, our sinnes with us; Yet they still get the Victory. Who are in Armes That you must to the Field?

Hub. The Kings Royall thoughts Are in a mutiny amongst themselves, And nothing can allay them but a slaughter, A general massacre of all the Christians That breath in his Dominion. I am the Engine To worke this glorious wonder.

Bellina. Forefend it Heaven! Last time you sat by me within my bower I told you of a Pallace wall'd with gold.

Hub. I doe remember it.

Bellina. The floore of sparkling Diamonds, and the roofe Studded with Stanes shining as bright as fire.

Hub. True.

Bellina. And I told you one day I would shew you A path should bring you thither.

Hub. You did indeed.

Bellina. And will you now neglect a lease of this To lye in a cold field, a field of murder? Say thou shouldst kill ten thousand Christians; They goe but as Embassadors to Heaven To tell thy cruelties, and on yon Battlements They all will stand on rowes, laughing to see Thee fall into a pit as bottomlesse As the Heavens are in extension infinite.

Hub. More, prethee, more: I had forgot this Musick.

Bellina. Say thou shouldst win the day, yet art thou lost, For ever lost; an everlasting slave Though thou com'st home a laurel'd Conqueror. You courted me to love you; now I woe thee To love thy selfe, to love a thing within thee More curious than the frame of all this world, More lasting than this Engine o're our heads, Whose wheeles have mov'd so many thousand yeeres: This thing is thy soule, for which I woe thee.

Hub. Thou woest, I yeeld, and in that yeelding love thee, And for that love Ile be the Christians guide: I am their Captaine, come, both Goth and Vandall; Nay, come the King, I am the Christians Generall.

Bellina. Not yet, till your Commission be faire drawne; Not yet, till on your brow you beare the Print Of a rich golden seale.

Hub. Get me that seale, then.

Bellina. There is an Aqua fortis (an eating water) Must first wash off thine infidelity, And then th'art arm'd.

Hub. O let me, then, be arm'd.

Bellina. Thou shalt; But on thy knees thou gently first shall sweare To put no Armour on but what I beare.

Hub. By this chaste clasping of our hands I sweare.

Bellina. We then thus hand in hand will fight a battaile Worth all the pitch-fields, all the bloody banquets, The slaughter and the massacre of Christians, Of whom such heapes so quickly never fell. Brave onset! be thy end not terrible.

Hub. This kindled fire burne in us, till as deaths slaves Our bodies pay their tributes to their graves.

[Exeunt.



(SCENE 2.)

Enter Clowne and two Pagans.

Clown. Come, fellow Pagans; death meanes to fare well to-day, for he is like to have rost-meate to his supper, two principal dishes; many a knight keepes a worse Table: first, a brave Generall Carbonadoed[165], then a fat Bishop broyl'd, whose Rochet[166] comes in fryed for the second course, according to the old saying, A plumpe greazie Prelate fries a fagot daintily.

1 Pag. Oh! the Generall Bellizarius for my money; hee has a fiery Spirit, too; hee will roast soakingly within and without.

Clown. Methinks Christians make the bravest Bonefires of any people in the Universe; as a Jew burnes pretty well, but if you marke him he burnes upward; the fire takes him by the Nose first.

2 Pag. I know some Vintners then are Jewes

Clown. Now, as your Jew burnes upward, your French-man burnes downewards like a Candle and commonly goes out with a stinke like a snuffe; and what socket soever it light in it, must be well cleans'd and pick't before it can be us'd agen. But Bellizarius, the brave Generall, will flame high and cleare like a Beacon; but your Puritane Eugenius will burne blew, blew like a white-bread sop in Aqua Vitae. Fellow Pagans, I pray let us agree among ourselves about the sharing of those two.

2 Pag. I, 'tis fit.

Clown. You know I am worshipfull by my place; the under-keeper may write Equire if he list at the bottome of the paper: I doe cry first the Generalls great Scarfe to make me a short Summer-cloake, and the Bishops wide sleeves to make me a Holy-dayes shirt.

1 Pag. Having a double voyce we cannot abridge you of a double share.

Clown. You, that so well know what belongs to reverence, the Breeches be[167] yours, whether Bishops or Generalls; but with this Provizo, because we will all share of both parties, as I have lead the way, I clayming the Generalls and the Bishops sleeves, so he that chuses the Generalls Doublet shall weare the Generalls Breeches.

2 Pag. A match.

Clown. Nay, 'twill be farre from a match, that's certaine; but it will make us to be taken for men of note, what company soever we come in.

The Souldier and the Scholler, peekt up so, Will make tam Marti quam Mercurio.

[Exeunt.



(SCENE 3.)

Enter the King, Antony, Damianus, and Cosmo; Victoria meetes the King.

Vict. As you are Vice-gerent to that Maiesty By whom Kings reigne on earth, as you would wish Your heires should sit upon your Throne, your name Be mentioned in the Chronicle of glory; Great King, vouchsafe me hearing.

King. Speake.

Vict. My husband, The much, too much wrong'd Bellizarius, Hath not deserv'd the measure of such misery Which is throwne on him. Call, oh call to minde His service, how often he hath fought And toyl'd in warres to give his Country peace. He has not beene a flatterer of the Time, Nor Courted great ones for their glorious Vices; He hath not sooth'd blinde dotage in the World, Nor caper'd on the Common-wealths dishonour; He has not peeld the rich nor flead the poore, Nor from the heart-strings of the Commons drawne Profit to his owne Coffers; he never brib'd The white intents of mercy; never sold Iustice for money, to set up his owne And utterly undoe whole families. Yet some such men there are that have done thus: The mores the pitty.

King. To the poynt.

Vict. Oh, Sir, Bellizarius has his wounds emptied of blood, Both for his Prince and Countrey: to repeat Particulars were to do iniury To your yet mindfull gratitude. His Life, His liberty, 'tis that I plead for—that; And since your enemies and his could never Captive the one and triumph in the other, Let not his friends—his King—commend a cruelty, Strange to be talkt of, cursed to be acted. My husband, oh! my husband Bellizarius, For him I begge.

King. Lady, rise up; we will be gracious To thy suit,—Cause Bellizarius And the Bishop be brought hither instantly. [Exit for him.

Vict. Now all the blessings due to a good King Crowne you with lasting honours.

King. If thou canst Perswade thy husband to recant his errours, He shall not onely live, but in our favoures Be chiefe. Wilt undertake it?

Vict. Undertake it, Sir, On these conditions? You shall your selfe Be witnesse with what instance I will urge him To pitty his owne selfe, recant his errours.

Anton. So doing he will purchase many friends.

Dam. Life, love, and liberty.

Vict. But tell me, pray, Sir; What are those errours which he must recant?

King. His hatred to those powers to which we bow, On whom we all depend, he has kneel'd to them; Let him his base Apostacy recant, Recant his being a Christian, and recant The love he beares to Christians.

Vict. If he deny To doe all this, or any poynt of this, Is there no mercy for him?

King. Couldst thou shed A Sea of teares to drowne my resolution, He dyes; could this fond man lay at my foote The kingdomes of the earth, he dyes; he dyes Were he my sonne, my father. Bid him recant, Else all the Torments cruelty can invent Shall fall on him.

Vict. No sparke of pitty?

King. None.

Vict. Well, then, but mark what paines Ile take to winne him, To winne him home; Ile set him in a way The Clouds shall clap to finde what went astray.

Anton. Doe this, and we are all his.

King. Doe this, I sweare to jewell him in my bosome. —See where he comes.

Enter Epidophorus with Bellizarius and Eugenius.

Belliz. And whither now? Is Tyranny growne ripe To blow us to our graves yet?

King. Bellizarius, Thy wife has s'ud for mercy, and has found it; Speake, Lady, tell him how.

Belliz. Victoria too! Oh, then I feare the striving to expresse The virtue of a good wife hath begot An utter ruine of all goodnesse in thee. What wou'dst thou say, poore woman? My Lord the King, Nothing can alter your incensed rage But recantation?

King. Nothing.

Vict. Recantation! sweet Musicke; Bellizarius, thou maist live; The King is full of royall bounty—like The ambition of mortality—examine; That recantation is—a toy.

King. None hinder her; now ply him.

Vict. To lose the portage[168] in these sacred pleasures That knowes no end; to lose the fellowship Of Angels; lose the harmony of blessings Which crowne all Martyrs with eternity! Wilt thou not recant?

King. I understand her not.

Omnes. Nor I.

Vict. Thy life hath hitherto beene, my dear husband, But a disease to thee; thou hast indeed Mov'd on the earth like other creeping wormes Who take delight in worldly surfeits, heate Their blood with lusts, their limbes with proud attyres; Fe[e]d on their change of sinnes; that doe not use Their pleasure[s] but enjoy them, enjoy them fully In streames that are most sensuall and persever To live so till they die, and to die never[169].

King. What meanes all this?

Anton. Art in thy right wits, woman?

Vict. Such beasts are those about thee; take then courage; If ever in thy youth thy soule hath set By the Worlds tempting fires, as these men doe, Recant that errour.

King. Ha!

Vict. Hast thou in battaile tane a pride in blood? Recant that errour. Hast thou constant stood In a bad cause? clap a new armour on And fight now in a good. Oh lose not heaven For a few minutes in a Tyrants eye; Be valiant and meete death: if thou now losest Thy portion laid up for thee yonder, yonder, For breath or honours here, oh thou dost sell Thy soule for nothing. Recant all this, And then be rais'd up to a Throne of blis.

Anton. We are abus'd, stop her mouth.

Belliz. Victoria, Thou nobly dost confirme me, hast new arm'd My resolution, excellent Victoria.

Eugen. Oh happy daughter, thou in this dost bring That Requiem to our soules which Angels sing.

Dam. Can you endure this wrong, Sir?

Cosmo. Be out-brav'd by a seducing Strumpet?

King. Binde her fast; Weele try what recantation you can make. Hagge, in the presence of your brave holy Champion And thy Husband, One of my Cammell drivers shall take from thee The glory of thy honesty and honour. Call in the Peasant.

Vict. Bellizarius, Eugenius, is there no guard above us That will protect me from a rape? 'tis worse Than worlds of tortures.

Eugen. Fear not, Victoria; Be thou a chaste one in thy minde, thy body May like a Temple of well tempered steele Be batter'd, not demolishe'd.

Belliz. Tyrant, be mercifull; And if thou hast no other vertue in thee Deserving memory to succeeding ages, Yet onely thy not suffering such an out-rage Shall adde praise to thy name.

King. Where is the Groome?

Eugen. Oh sure the Sunne will darken And not behold a deed so foule and monstrous.

Enter Epidophorus with a Slave.

Epi. Here is the Cammell driver.

Omnes. Stand forth, sirrah.

Epi. Be bould and shrink not; this is she.

1 Cam. And I am hee. Is't the kings pleasure that I should mouse[170] her, and before all these people?

King. No; 'tis considered better; unbinde the fury And dragge her to some corner; 'tis our pleasure, Fall to thy businesse freely.

1 Cam. Not too freely neither: I fare hard and drinke water; so doe the Indians, yet who fuller of Bastards? so doe the Turkes, yet who gets greater Logger-heads? Come, wench; Ile teach thee how to cut up wild fowle.

Vict. Guard me, you heavens.

Belliz. Be mine eyes lost for ever.

1 Cam. Is that her husband?

Epi. Yes.

1 Cam. No matter; some husbands are so base, they keepe the doore whilst they are Cuckolded; but this is after a more manlier way, for he stands bound to see it done.

King. Haile her away.

1 Cam. Come, Pusse! Haile her away? which way? yon way? my Camells backs cannot climbe it.

Anton. The fellow is struck mad.

1 Cam. That way? it lookes into a Mill-pond, Whirre! how the Wheels goe and the Divell grindes. No, this way.

King. Keepe the slave back!

1 Cam. Backe, keep me backe! there sits my wife kembing her haire, which curles like a witches felt-locks[171]! all the Neets in't are Spiders, and all the Dandruffe the sand of a Scriveners Sand-boxe. Stand away; my whore shall not be lousie; let me come noynt her with Stavesucre[172].

King. Defend me, lop his hands off!

Omnes. Hew him in pieces

King. What has he done?

Anton. Sir, beate out his owne braines.

Vict. You for his soule must answer.

King. Fetch another.

Eugen. Tempt not the wrath supernall to fall downe And crush thee in thy throne.

Enter 2 Cammell drivers.

King. Peace, sorcerous slave: Sirra, take hence this Witch and ravish her.

2 Cam. A Witch? Witches are the Divels sweete hearts.

King. Doe it, be thou Master of much gold.

2 Cam. Shall I have gold to doe it? in some Countries I heare whole Lordships are spent upon a fleshly device, yet the buyer in the end had nothing but French Repentance and the curse of Chyrurgery for his money. Let me finger my gold; Ile venture on, but not give her a penny. Womans flesh was never cheaper; a man may eate it without bread; all Trades fall, so doe they.

Epi. Look you, Sir, there's your gold.

2 Cam. Ile tell money after my father. Oh I am strucke blinde!

Omnes. The fellow is bewitcht, Sir.

Eugen. Great King, impute not This most miraculous delivery To witch-craft; 'tis a gentle admonition To teach thy heart obey it.

King. Lift up the slave; Though he has lost his sight, his feeling is not; He dyes unlesse he ravish her.

Epi. Force her into thy armes or else thou dyest.

2 Cam. I have lost my hearing, too.

King. Fetch other slaves.

Epi. Thou must force her.

2 Cam. Truely I am hoarse with driving my Cammells, and nothing does me good but sirrop of Horehound.

Enter two Slaves.

Epi. Here are two slaves will doe it indeed.

2. Which is shee?

King. This creature; she has beauty to intice you And enough to feast you all; seize her all three And ravish her by turnes.

Slaves. A match.

[They dance antiquely, and Exeunt.

King. Hang up these slaves; I am mock't by her and them; They dance me into anger. Heard you not musicke?

Anton. Yes, sure, and most sweet melody.

Vict. 'Tis the heavens play And the Clowdes dance for ioy thy cruelty Has not tane hold upon me.

King. Hunger then shall: Leade them away, dragge her to some loathed dungeon And for three days give her no food. Load her with Irons.

Epi. They shall.

Eugen. Come, fellow souldiers, halfe the fight is past: The bloodiest battell comes to an end at last.

[Exeunt.



Actus Quintus.

Enter Epidophorus and Clowne.

Epi. Have any Christian soule broke from my Iayle This night, and gone i'the dark to find out heaven? Are any of my hated prisoners dead?

Clown. Dead? yes; and five more come into the world instead of one. These Christians are like Artichoaks of Jerusalam; they over-runne any ground they grow in.

Epi. Are they so fruitfull?

Clown. Fruitfull! a Hee Christian told me that amongst them the young fellowes are such Earing rioted[173] Rascals that they will runne into the parke of Matrimony at sixteene; are Bucks of the first head at eighteenes and by twenty carry in some places their hornes on their backs.

Epi. On their backs? What kind of Christians are they?

Clown. Marry, these are Christian Butchers, who when their Oxen are flead throw their skinnes on their shoulders.

Epi. I thought they had beene Cuckolds.

Clown. Amongst them? no; there's no woman, that's a true Christian, will horne her husband. There dyed to night no lesse than six and a halfe in our Iayle.

Epi. How? six and a halfe?

Clown. One was a girle of thirteene, with child.

Epi. Thy tidings fats me.

Clown. You may have one or two of 'em drest to your Dinner to make you more fat.

Epi. Unhallowed slave! let a Jew eate Pork, when I but touch a Christian.

Clown. You are not of my dyet: Would I had a young Loyne of Porke to my Supper, and two Loynes of a pretty sweate Christian after Supper.

Epi. Would thou mightst eate and choake.

Clown. Never at such meate; it goes downe without chawing.

Epi. We have a taske in hand, to kill a Serpent Which spits her poyson in our kingdomes face. And that we speake not of (?); lives still That Witch Victoria, wife to Bellizarius? Is Death afraid to touch the Hagge? does hunger Tremble to gnaw her flesh off, dry up her blood And make her eate her selfe in Curses, ha?

Clown. Ha? your mouth gapes as if you would eate me. The King commanded she should be laden with Irons,—I have laid two load upon her; then to pop her into the Dungeon,—I thrust her downe as deepe as I could; then to give her no meate,—alas my cheekes cry out, I have meate little enough for my selfe. Three days and three nights has her Cupboard had no victuals in it; I saw no lesse than Fifty sixe Mice runne out of the hole she lies in, and not a crumme of bread or bit of cheese amongst them.

Epi. 'Tis the better.

Clown. I heard her one morning cough pittifully; upon which I gave her a messe of Porredge piping-hot.

Epi. Thou Dog, 'tis Death.

Clown. Nay but, Sir, I powr'd 'em downe scalding as they were on her head, because they say they are good for a cold, and I thinke that kill'd her; for to try if she were alive or no I did but even now tye a Crust to a packe-threed on a pinne, but shee leapt not at it; so that I am sure shee's worms meate by this.

Epi. Rewards in golden showers shall raine upon us, Be thy words true: fall downe and kisse the earth.

Clown. Kisse earth? Why? and so many wenches come to the Iayle?

Epi. Slave, downe and clap thy eare to the caves mouth And make me glad or heavy; if she speake not I shall cracke my ribs and spend my spleene in laughter; But if thou hear'st her pant I am gon.

Clown. Farewell, then.

Epi. Breaths shee?

Clown. No, Sir; her winde instrument is out of tune.

Epi. Call, cal.

Clown. Do you heare, you low woman? hold not downe your head so for shame; creepe not thus into a corner, no honest woman loves to be fumbling thus in the darke. Hang her; she has no tongue.

Epi. Would twenty thousand of their sexe had none.

Clown. Foxe, foxe, come out of your hole.

An Angel ascends from the cave, singing.

Epi. Horrour! what's this?

Clown. Alas, I know not what my selfe am.

ANGEL SINGS.

Fly, darknesse, fly in spight of Caves; Truth can thrust her armes through Graves. No Tyrant shall confine A white soule that's divine And does more brightly shine Than Moone or Sunne; She lasts when they are done.

Epi. I am bewitcht, Mine Eyes faile me; lead me to [the] King.

Clown. And tell we heard a Mermaide sing.

[Exeunt.

ANGEL SINGS.

Goe, fooles, and let your feares Glow as your sins[174] and eares; The good, how e're trod under, Are Lawreld safe in thunder; Though lockt up in a Den One Angel frees you from an host of men.

The Angel descends as the King enters, who comes in with his Lords, Epidophorus and the Clowne.

King. Where is this piece of witchcraft?

Epi. 'Tis vanish'd, Sir,

Clown. 'Twas here, just at the Caves mouth, where shee lyes.

Anton. What manner of thing was it?

Epi. An admirable face, and when it sung All the Clouds danc't methought above our heads,

Clown. And all the ground under my heeles quak't like a Bogge.

King. Deluded slaves! these are turn'd Christians, too.

Epi. The prisoners in my Iayle will not say so.

Clown. Turnd Christians! it has ever beene my profession to fang[175] and clutch and to squeeze: I was first a Varlet[176], then a Bumbaily, now an under Iailor. Turn'd Christian!

King. Breake up the Iron passage of the Cave And if the sorceresse live teare her in pieces.

The Angel ascends agen.

Epi. See, 'tis come agen.

King. It staggers me.

Omnes. Amazement! looke to the King.

ANGEL SINGS.

She comes, she comes, she comes! No banquets are so sweete as Martyrdomes. She comes!

(Angel descends.)

Anton. 'Tis vanish'd, Sir, agen.

Dam. Meere Negromancy.

Cosmo. This is the apparition of some divell Stealing a glorious shape, and cryes 'she comes'!

Clown. If all divels were no worse, would I were amongst 'em.

King. Our power is mockt by magicall impostures; They shall not mock our tortures. Let Eugenius And Bellizarius fright away these shadowes Rung from sharp tortures: drag them hither.

Epi. To th'stake?

Clown. As Beares are?

King. And upon your lives My longings feast with her, though her base limbes Be in a thousand pieces.

Clown. She shall be gathered up.

[Exit. Epid. and Clowne.

(Victoria rises out of the cave, white.)

Vict. What's the Kings will? I am here. Are your tormentors ready to give battaile? I am ready for them, and though I lose My life hope to winne the day.

King. What art thou?

Vict. An armed Christian.

King. What's thy name?

Vict. Victoria: in my name there's conquest writ: I therefore feare no threat[e]nings! but pray That thou maist dye a good king.

Omnes. This is not she, Sir.

King. It is, but on her brow some Deity sits. What are those Fayries dressing up her haire, Whilst sweeter spirits dancing in her eyes Bewitcheth me to them?

Enter Epidophorus, Bellizarius, Eugenius, and Clowne.

Oh Victoria, love me! And see, thy Husband, now a slave whose life Hangs at a needles poynt, shall live, so thou Breath but the doome.—Trayters! what sorcerous hand Has built upon this inchantment of a Christian To make me doat upon the beauty of it? How comes she to this habite? Went she thus in?

Epi. No, Sir, mine owne hande stript her into rags.

Clown. For any meat shee has eaten her face needes not make you doate; and for cleane linen Ile sweare it was not brought into the Iaile, for there they scorne to shift once a weeke.

King. Bellizarius, woe thy wife that she would love me, And thou shalt live.

Belliz. I will.—Victoria, By all those chaste fires kindled in our bosomes Through which pure love shin'd on our marriage night; Nay, with a bolder conjuration, By all those thornes and bryers which thy soft feet Tread boldly on to finde a path to heaven, I begge of thee, even on my knee I beg, That thou wouldst love this King, take him by th'hand, Warme his in thine, and hang about his necke, And seale ten thousand kisses on his cheeke, So he will tread his false gods under foote.

Omnes. Oh, horrible!

King. Bring tortures.

Belliz. So he will wash his soule white, as we doe, And fight under our Banner (bloody red), And hand in hand with us walke martyred.

Anton. They mocke you.

King. Stretch his body up by th'armes, And at his feete hang plummets.

Clown. He shall be well shod for stroveling, I warrant you.

Cosmo. Eugenius, bow thy knee before our Jove, And the King gives thee mercy.

Dam. Else stripes and death.

Eugen. We come into the world but at one doore, But twenty thousand gates stand open wide To give us passage hence: death then is easie, And I defie all tortures.

King. Then fasten the Cative; I care not for thy wife: Get from mine eyes Thou tempting Lamia. But, Bellizarius, Before thy bodyes frame be puld in pieces, Wilt thou forsake the errours thou art drencht in?

Belliz. Errours? thou blasphemous and godlesse man, From the great Axis maist thou as easie With one arme plucke the Universall Globe, As from my Center move me. There's my figure; They are waves that beat a rock insensible With an infatigable patience. My breast dares all your arrowes; shoote,—shoote, all; Your tortures are but struck against the wall, Which, backe rebounding, hit your selves.

King. Up with him.

Belliz. Lay on more waights; that hangman which more brings Addes active feathers to my soaring wings.

(They draw him up.)

King. Victoria, yet save him.

Vict. Keepe on thy flight, And be a bird of Paradise.

Omnes. Give him more Irons.

Belliz. More, more.

King. Let him then goe; love thou and be my Queene, Daine but to love me.

Vict. I am going to live with a farre greater King.

King. Binde the coy strumpet; she dyes, too. Let her braines be beaten on an Anvill: For some new plagues for her!

Omnes. Vexe him.

Belliz. Doe more.

Vict. Heavens, pardon you.

Eugen. And strengthen him in all his sufferings.

Two Angels descend.

2 ANGEL SINGS.

Come, oh come, oh come away; A Quire of Angels for thee stay; A home where Diamonds borrow light, Open stands for thee this night, Night? no, no; here is ever day: Come, oh come, oh come, oh come away.

1 Ang. This battaile is thy last; fight well, and winne A Crowne set full of Starres.

Belliz. I spy an arme Plucking [me] up to heaven; more waights, you are best; I shall be gone else.

Vict. Doe, Ile follow thee.

King. Is he not yet dispatcht?

Belliz. Yes, King, I thanke thee; I have all my life time trod on rotten ground, And still so deepe beene sinking that my soule Was oft like to bee lost; but now I see A guide, sweete guide, a blessed messenger Who having brought me up a little way Up yonder hill, I then am sure to buy For a few stripes here rich eternity.

2 ANGEL SINGS.

Victory, victory! hell is beaten downe, The Martyr has put on a golden Crowne; Ring Bels of Heaven, him welcome hither, Circle him Angels round together.

1 Angel. Follow!

Vict. I will; what sacred voice cryes 'follow'! I am ready: Oh send me after him.

King. Thou shalt not, Till thou hast fed my lust.

Vict. Thou foole, thou canst not; All my mortality is shaken off; My heart of flesh and blood is gone; my body Is chang'd; this face is not that once was mine. I am a Spirit, and no racke of thine Can touch me.

King. Not a racke of mine shall touch thee. Why should the world loose such a paire of Sunnes As shine out from thine eyes? Why art thou cruell, To make away thy selfe and murther mee? Since whirle-winds cannot shake thee thou shalt live, And Ile fanne gentle gales upon thy face. Fetch me a day bed, rob the earths perfumes Of all the ravishing sweetes to feast her sence; Pillowes of roses shall beare up her head; O would a thousand springs might grow in one To weave a flowry mantle o're her limbes As she lyes downe.

Enter two Angels about the bed.

Vict. O that some rocke of Ice Might fall on me and freeze me into nothing.

King. Enchant our [her?] eares with Musicke; would I had skill To call the winged musitians of the aire Into these roomes! they all should play to thee Till golden slumbers danc'd upon thy browes, Watching to close thine eye-lids.

Ang. These Starres must shine no more; soule, flye away. Tyrant, enioy but a cold lumpe of clay.

King. My charmes worke; shee sleepes, And lookes more lovely now she sleepes. Against she wakes, Invention, grow thou poore, Studying to finde a banquet which the gods Might be invited to. I need not court her now For a poor kisse; her lips are friendly now, And with the warme breath sweeting all the Aire, Draw mee thus to them.—Ha! the lips of Winter Are not so cold.

Anton. She's dead, Sir.

King. Dead?

Dam. As frozen as if the North-winde had in spight Snatcht her hence from you.

King. Oh; I have murthered her! Perfumes some creature kill: she has so long In that darke Dungeon suck't pestiferous breath, The sweete has stifled her. Take hence the body, Since me it hated it shall feele my hate: Cast her into the fire; I have lost her, And for her sake all Christians shall be lost That subjects are to me: massacre all, But thou, Eugenius, art the last shall fall This day; and in mine eye, though it nere see more, Call on thy helper which thou dost adore.

A Thunder-bolt strikes him.

Omnes. The King is strucke with thunder!

Eugen. Thankes, Divine Powers; Yours be the triumph and the wonder ours.

Anton. Unbinde him till a new King fill the throne; And he shall doome him.

A Hubert, a Hubert, a Hubert!

Flourish: Enter Hubert, armed with shields and swords. Bellina and a company of Souldiers with him.

Hub. What meanes this cry, 'a Hubert'? Where's your King?

Omnes. Strucke dead by thunder.

Hub. So I heare; you see, then, There is an arme more rigorous than your Iove, An arme stretcht from above to beate down Gyants, The mightiest Kings on Earth, for all their shoulders Carry Colossi heads: the memory Of Genzericks name dyes here: Henricke gives buriall To the successive glory of that race Who had both voyce and title to the Crowne, And meanes to guard it.—Who must now be King?

Anton. We know not till we call the Lords together.

Hub. What Lords?

Cosmo. Our selves and others.

Hub. Who makes you Lords? The Tree upon whose boughs your honours grew, Your Lordships and your lives, is falne to th'ground.

Dam. We stand on our owne strength.

Hub. Who must be King?

Within: A Hubert, a Hubert a Hubert!

Hub. Deliver to my hand that reverent [sic] man.

Epi. Take him and torture him, for he cald down Vengeance On Henricks head.

Hub. Good Eugenius, lift thy hands up, For thou art say'd from Henricke and from these. You heare what ecchoes Rebound from earth to heaven, from heaven to earth, Casting the name of King onely on me? This golden apple is a tempting fruit; It is within my reach; this sword can touch it, And lop the weake branch off on which it hangs. Which of you all would spurne at such a Starre, Lay it i'th the dust when 'tis let down from heaven For him to weare?

Anton. Who then must weare that Starre?

Within: Hubert, Hubert, Hubert!

Hub. The Oracle tells you; Oracle? 'tis a voyce From above tells you; for the peoples tongues, When they pronounce good things, are ty'd to chaines Of twenty thousand linkes, which chaines are held By one supernall hand, and cannot speake But what that hand will suffer. I have then The people on my side; I have the souldiers; I have that army which your rash young King Had bent against the Christians,—they now are mine: I am the Center, and they all are lines Meeting in me. If, therefore, these strong sinewes, The Souldiers and the Commons, have a vertue To lift me into the Throne, Ile leape into it. Will you consent or no? be quick in answer; I must be swift in execution else.

Omnes. Let us consult.

Hub. Doe, and doe't quickly.

Eugen. O noble Sir, if you be King shoot forth Bright as a Sunne-beame, and dry up these vapours That choake this kingdome; dry the seas of blood Flowing from Christians, and drinke up the teares Of those alive, halfe slaughter'd in their feares.

Hub. Father, Ile not offend you.—Have you done? So long chusing one Crowne?

Anton. Let Drums and Trumpets proclaime Hubert our King!

Omnes. Sound Drummes and Trumpets!

Hub. I have it, then, as well by voyce as sword; For should you holde it backe it will be mine. I claime it, then, by conquest; fields are wonne By yeelding as by strokes: Yet, noble Vandals, I will lay by the Conquest and acknowledge That your hands and your hearts the pinnacles are On which my greatnesse mounts unto this height. And now in sight of you and heaven I sweare By those new sacred fires kindled within me, 'Tis not your ho[o]pe of Gold my brow desires; A thronging Court to me is but a Cell; These popular acclamations, which thus dance I'th Aire, should passe by me as whistling windes Playing with leaves of trees. I'me not ambitious Of Titles glorious and maiesticall; But what I doe is to save blood, save you; I meane to be a husband for you all, And fill you all with riches.

Epi. 'Tis that we thirst for; For all our bagges are emptied in these warres Rais'd by seditious Christians.

Hub. Peace, thou foole: They are not bags of gold, that melts in fire, Which I will fill your coffers with; my treasury Are riches for your soules; my armes are spread Like wings to protect Christians. What have you done? Proclaim'd a Christian King; and Christian Kings Should not be bloody.

Omnes. How? turn'd Christian?

Eugen. O blest King! happy day!

Omnes. Must we forsake our Gods then?

Hub. Violent streames Must not bee stopt by violence; there's an art To meete and put by the most boysterous wave; 'Tis now no policy for you to murmure Nor will I threaten. A great counsell by you Shall straight be cal'd to set this frame in order Of this great state.

Omnes. To that we all are willing.

Hub. Are you then willing this noble maid Shall be my Queene?

Omnes. With all our hearts.

Hub. By no hand but by thine will we be crown'd: Come, my Bellina.

Bellina. Your vow is past to me that I should ever Preserve my virgin honour, that you would never Tempt me unto your bed.

Hub. That vow I keepe: I vow'd so long as my knees bow'd to Iove To let you be your selfe; but, excellent Lady, I now am seal'd a Christian as you are: And you have sworne oft that, when upon my forehead That glorious starre was stucke, you would be mine In holy wedlocke. Come, sweete, you and I Shall from our loynes produce a race of Kings, And ploughing up false gods set up one true; Christians unborne crowning both me and you With praise as now with gold.

Bellina. A fortunate day; A great power prompts me on and I obey.

(Flourish)

Omnes. Long live Hubert and Bellina, King and Queene Of Goths and Vandals.

Hub. Two royall Iewels you give me, this and this: Father, your hand is lucky, I am covetous Of one Gift more: After your sacred way Make you this Queene a wife: our Coronation Is turn'd into a bridall.

Omnes. All ioy and happinesse.

Hub. To guard your lives will I lay out mine owne, And like Vines plant you round about my throne.

The end of the fift and last Act.



To the Reader of this Play now come in Print.

That this play's old 'tis true; but now if any Should for that cause despise it we have many Reasons, both iust and pregnant, to maintaine Antiquity, and those, too, not all vaine. We know (and not long since) there was a time Strong lines were not lookt after, but, if Rime, O then 'twas excellent. Who but beleeves That Doublets with stuft bellies and big sleeves And those Trunk-hose[177] which now our life doth scorne Were all in fashion and with custome worne? And what's now out of date who is't can tell But it may come in fashion and sute well? With rigour therefore iudge not but with reason, Since what you read was fitted to that season.



The Epilogue.

As in a Feast, so in a Comedy, Two Sences must be pleas'd; in both the Eye; In Feasts the Eye and Taste must be invited, In Comedies the Eye and Eare delighted: And he that only seekes to please but either, While both he doth not please, he pleaseth neither. What ever Feast could every guest content, When as t'each man each Taste is different? But lesse a Scene, when nought but as 'tis newer Can please, where Guests are more and Dishes fewer. Yet in this thought, this thought the Author eas'd; Who once made all, all rules all never pleas'd.[178] Faine would we please the best, if not the many; And sooner will the best be pleas'd then any. Our rest we set[179] in pleasing of the best; So we wish you, what you may give us, Rest.

FINIS.



INTRODUCTION TO THE NOBLE SOULDIER.

In December, 1633, Nicholas Vavasour entered the Noble Spanish Souldier on the Stationers' Registers as a work of Dekker's; and in the following year the same publisher brought out the Noble Soldier with the initials S.R. on the title-page. The running-title of the piece is The Noble Spanish Souldier. There is nothing to hinder us from supposing that Dekker, unwilling to take the credit due to his dead friend, informed the publisher of the mistake. Possibly the play had undergone some revision at Dekker's hands.

Samuel Rowley was at once an actor and a playwright. The first mention of him is in a list of the Lord Admiral's players, March 8, 1597-8 (Henslowe's Diary, ed. Collier, p. 120). On the sixteenth of November, 1599, Rowley bound himself to play solely for Henslowe 'for a year and as much as to Shraftide' (Diary, p. 260). In 1603 we find him among Prince Henry's players (Collier's Annals of the Stage, i. 351): he is still belonging to the same company in 1607 (Shakespeare Society's Papers, iv. 44). Six years later, 1613, he is among the Palsgrave's players (Annals of the Stage, i. 381).[180]

Francis Meres in Palladis Tamia (1598), enumerating 'the best for comedy,' mentions a certain Maister Rowley once a rare scholar of learned Pembrooke Hall in Cambridge. It has been conjectured that the allusion is to Samuel Rowley; but a more likely candidate for the honour is Ralph Rowley, who is known to have been a Fellow of Pembroke Hall. We do not learn from any other source that Ralph Rowley wrote plays; but, like another Academic worthy in whose company he is mentioned, 'Dr. Gager of Oxforde', he may have composed some Latin pieces that the world was content to let die. Of Samuel Rowley as a playwright we hear nothing before December, 1601, when he was writing for Henslowe a scriptural play on the subject of Judas in company with his fellow-actor William Borne—or Birde, for the name is variously written (Henslowe's Diary, p. 205). In July of the following year an entry occurs in the Diary—'Lent unto Samwell Rowley and Edward Jewbe to paye for the Booke of Samson, vi 1.' Samuel Rowley and Edward Jewby often acted as paymasters for Henslowe; but I suspect that in the present instance the money went into their own pockets. Two months later we certainly find our author receiving the sum of seven pounds in full payment 'for his playe of Jhoshua' (Henslowe's Diary, p. 226). In November of the same year he was employed with William Birde to make additions to Marlowe's Faustus (ibid. p. 228). On July 27, 1623, Sir Henry Herbert licensed 'for the Palsgrave's players a tragedy of Richard the Third, or the English Profit with the Reformation, by Samuel Rowley'; and, again, on October 29 of the same year 'for the Palsgrave players a new comedy called Hard Shifte for Husbands, or Bilboes the Best Blade, written by Samuel Rowley.' Another of our author's pieces, 'Hymen's Holiday, or Cupid's Fagaries,' is mentioned in a list of plays which belonged to the Cock-pit in 1639. None of these plays has come down; but in 1605 there was published 'When You See Me You Know Me; or the famous Chronicle Historic of King Henry VIII. with the Birth and virtuous Life of Edward Prince of Wales. By Samuel Rowley.' This play was again printed in 1632; and a few years ago it was elaborately edited by Prof. Karl Eltze, who—whatever may be his merits as a critic—is acknowledged on every hand to be a most accomplished scholar.

The piece now reprinted will need some indulgence at the reader's hands. Its blemishes are not a few; and no great exercise of critical ability is required to discover that the language is often strained and the drawing extravagant. The atmosphere in which the action of the piece moves is hot and heavy. Sebastian's presence in the third act brings with it a ray of sunlight; but he is quickly gone, and the gloom settles down more hopelessly than before. Onaelia, the forsaken lady, is so vixenish that she moves our sympathies only in a moderate degree. In both choices the King seems to have been equally unfortunate; and it may be doubted whether he could be 'happy with either were t'other fair charmer away.' Baltazar, the Noble Soldier, is something of a bore. At first we are a little suspicious of him, for he seems to 'protest too much'; and even when these suspicions are set at rest his strut and swagger continue to be offensive.

But though the Noble Souldier is not a play over which one would linger long or to which one would care often to return, yet it is impossible not to be struck by the power that marks so much of the writing. Here is an example of our author at his best:—

'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 feel 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.'—(i. 2.)

There is the true dramatic ring in those lines; the words come straight from the heart and strike home. The swift sudden menace in the last line is more effective than pages of rhetoric.

The Noble Souldier affords a good illustration of the sanctity attached by our ancestors to marriage-contracts. On this subject the reader will find some interesting remarks in Mr. Spalding's Elizabethan Demonology (pp. 3-7).



THE NOBLE SOVLDIER,

OR,

A CONTRACT BROKEN, JUSTLY REVENG'D.

_A TRAGEDY.

Written by_ S.R.

_Non est, Lex Iustior Ulla, Quam Nescis Artifices, Arte perire Sua.

LONDON_: Printed for _Nicholas Vavasour_, and are to be sold at his shop in the _Temple_, neere the Church. 1634.



The Printer to the Reader.

Understanding Reader, I present this to your view which has received applause in Action. The Poet might conceive a compleat satisfaction upon the Stages approbation. But the Printer rests not there, knowing that that which was acted and approved upon the Stage might be no less acceptable in Print. It is now communicated to you whose leisure and knowledge admits of reading and reason: Your Judgment now this Posthumus assures himself will well attest his predecessors endevours to give content to men of the ablest quality, such as intelligent readers are here conceived to be. I could have troubled you with a longer epistle, but I feare to stay you from the booke, which affords better words and matter than I can. So, the work modestly depending in the skale of your Judgment, the Printer for his part craves your pardon, hoping by his promptness to doe you greater service as conveniency shall enable him to give you more or better testimony of his entirenesse towards you. N.V.



Dramatis Personae.

King of Spaine. Cardinall. Duke of Medina.

Marquesse Daenia, Alba, Roderigo, Dons of Spayne. Valasco, Lopez.

Queene, A Florentine. Onaelia, Neece to Medina, the Contracted Lady. Sebastian, Her Sounne. Malateste, A Florentine. Baltazar, The Souldier. A Poet. Cockadillio, A foolish Courtier. A Fryer.

[To make the list complete we should add—

Cornego. Carlo. Alanzo. Signer No.]



THE NOBLE SPANISH SOULDIER.

Actus Primus.

SCAENA PRIMA.

Enter in Magnificent state, to the sound of lowd musicke, the King and Queene as from Church, attended by the Cardinall, Count Malateste, Daenia, Roderigo, Valasco, Alba, Carlo, and some waiting Ladies. The King and Queen with Courtly Complements salute and part; she with one halfe attending her; King, Cardinall and th'other halfe stay, the King seeming angry and desirous to be rid of them too.—King, Cardinal, Daenia, &c.

King. Give us what no man here is master of, Breath; leave us, pray: my father Cardinall Can by the Physicke of Philosophy Set al agen in order. Leave us, pray.

[Exeunt.

Card. How is it with you, Sir?

King. As with a Shippe Now beat with stormes, now safe the stormes are vanisht; And having you my Pylot I not onely See shore but harbour. I to you will open The booke of a blacke sinne deepe-printed in me. Oh, father, my disease lyes in my soule.

Card. The old wound, Sir?

King. Yes, that; it festers inward: For though I have a beauty to my bed That even Creation envies at, as wanting Stuffe to make such another, yet on her pillow I lye by her but an Adulterer And she as an Adulteresse. Shee's my Queene And wife, yet but my strumpet, tho the Church Set on the seale of Mariage: good Onaelia, Neece to our Lord high Constable of Spaine, Was precontracted mine.

Card. Yet when I stung Your Conscience with remembrance of the Act, Your eares were deafe to counsell.

King. I confesse it.

Card. Now to unty the knot with your new Queene Would shake the Crowne halfe from your head.

King. Even Troy (Tho she hath wept her eyes out) wud find teares To wayle my kingdomes ruines.

Card. What will you doe then?

King. She has that Contract written, seal'd by you And other Churchmen (witnesses untoo't). A kingdome should be given for that paper.

Card. I wud not, for what lyes beneath the Moone, Be made a wicked Engine to breake in pieces That holy Contract.

King. 'Tis my soules ayme to tye it Vpon a faster knot.

Card. I do not see How you can with safe conscience get it from her.

King. Oh, I know I wrastle with a Lyonesse: to imprison her And force her too't I dare not. Death! what King Did ever say I dare not? I must have it. A Bastard have I by her; and that Cocke Will have (I feare) sharpe spurres, if he crow after Him that trod for him. Something must be done Both to the Henne and Chicken: haste you therefore To sad Onaelia; tell her I'm resolv'd To give my new Hawke bells and let her flye; My Queene I'm weary of and her will marry. To this our Text adde you what glosse you please; The secret drifts of Kings are depthlesse Seas.

[Exeunt.



(SCENE 2.)

A Table set out cover'd with blacke: two waxen tapers: the Kings Picture at one end, a Crucifix at the other: Onaelia walking discontentedly weeping to the Crucifix, her Mayd with her: to them Cornego.

SONG.

Quest. Oh sorrow, sorrow, say, where dost thou dwell?

Answ. In the lowest roome of Hell.

Quest. Art thou borne of Humane race?

Answ. No, no, I have a furier[181] face.

Quest. Art thou in City, Towne or Court?

Answ. I to every place resort.

Quest. O why into the world is sorrow sent?

Answ. Men afflicted best repent.

Quest. What dost thou feed on?

Answ. Broken sleepe.

Quest. What tak'st thou pleasure in?

Answ. To weepe, To sigh, to sob, to pine, to groane, To wring my hands, to sit alone.

Quest. Oh when, oh when shall sorrow quiet have?

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.

SCAENA PRIMA[186].

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.

SCAENA PRIMA.

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.