(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?