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,