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.