Queen.  Put it to tryall: 
Retire a little:  hither I’le send for him,
Offer repeale and favours if he doe it;
But if deny, you have no finger in’t,
And then his doome of banishment stands good.

King.  Be happy in thy workings; I obey. [Exit.

Queen.  Stay, Lopez.

Lop.  Madam.

Queen.  Step to our Lodging, Lopez,
And instantly bid Malateste bring
The banish’d Baltazar to us.

Lop.  I shall. [Exit.

Queen.  Thrive my blacke plots; the mischiefes I have set Must not so dye; Ills must new Ills beget.

    Enter Malateste and Baltazar.

Bal.  Now! what hot poyson’d Custard must I put my Spoone into now?

Queen.  None, for mine honour now is thy protection.

Mal.  Which, Noble Souldier, she will pawn for thee But never forfeit.

Bal.  ’Tis a faire gage; keepe it.

Queen.  Oh, Baltazar, I am thy friend, and mark’d thee
When the King sentenc’d thee to banishment: 
Fire sparkled from thine eyes of rage and griefe;
Rage to be doom’d so for a Groome so base,
And griefe to lose thy country.  Thou hast kill’d none: 
The Milke-sop is but wounded, thou art not banish’d.

Bal.  If I were I lose nothing; I can make any Countrey mine.  I have a private Coat for Italian Steeletto’s, I can be treacherous with the Wallowne, drunke with the Dutch, a Chimney-sweeper with the Irish, a Gentleman with the Welsh[202] and turne arrant theefe with the English:  what then is my Country to me?

Queen.  The King, who (rap’d with fury) banish’d thee, Shall give thee favours, yeeld but to destroy What him distempers.

Bal.  So; and what’s the dish I must dresse?

Queen.  Onely the cutting off a paire of lives.

Bal.  I love no Red-wine healths.

Mal.  The King commands it; you are but Executioner.

Bal.  The Hang-man?  An office that will hold as long as hempe lasts:  why doe not you begge the office, Sir?

Queen.  Thy victories in field shall never crowne thee As this one Act shall.

Bal.  Prove but that, ’tis done.

Queen.  Follow him close; hee’s yeelding.

Mal.  Thou shalt be call’d thy Countries Patriot
For quenching out a fire now newly kindling
In factious bosomes; and shalt thereby save
More Noble Spanyards lives than thou slew’st Moores.

Queen.  Art thou not yet converted?

Bal.  No point.

Queen.  Read me then:  Medina’s Neece, by a contract from the King, Layes clayme to all that’s mine, my Crowne, my bed; A sonne she has by him must fill the Throne If her great faction can but worke that wonder.  Now heare me—­