Bal.  I doe with gaping eares.

Queen.  I swell with hopefull issue to the King.

Bal.  A brave Don call you mother.

Mal.  Of this danger The feare afflicts the King.

Bal.  Cannot much blame him.

Queen.  If therefore by the riddance of this Dame—­

Bal.  Riddance? oh! the meaning on’t is murder.

Mal.  Stab her or so, that’s all.

Queen.  That Spaine be free from frights, the King from feares,
And I, now held his Infamy, be called Queene;
The Treasure of the kingdome shall lye open
To pay thy Noble darings.

Bal.  Come, Ile doo’t, provided I heare Jove call to me tho he rores; I must have the King’s hand to this warrant, else I dare not serve it upon my Conscience.

Queen.  Be firme, then; behold the King is come.

    Enter King.

Bal.  Acquaint him.

Queen.  I found the metal hard, but with oft beating Hees now so softened he shall take impression From any seale you give him.

King. Baltazar,
Come hither, listen; whatsoe’re our Queene
Has importun’d thee to, touching Onaelia
(Neece to the Constable) and her young sonne,
My voyce shall second it and signe her promise.

Bal.  Their riddance?

King.  That.

Bal.  What way? by poyson?

King.  So.

Bal.  Starving, or strangling, stabbing, smothering?

Queen.  Good.

King.  Any way, so ’tis done.

Bal.  But I will have, Sir, This under your owne hand; that you desire it, You plot it, set me on too’t.

King.  Penne, Inke and paper.

Bal.  And then as large a pardon as law and wit Can engrosse for me.

King.  Thou shalt ha my pardon.

Bal.  A word more, Sir; pray will you tell me one thing?

King.  Yes, any thing, deare Baltazar.

Bal.  Suppose I have your strongest pardon, can that cure my wounded Conscience? can there your pardon help me?  You not onely knocke the Ewe a’th head, but cut the Innocent Lambes throat too:  yet you are no Butcher!

Queen.  Is this thy promis’d yeelding to an Act So wholesome for thy Country?

King.  Chide him not.

Bal.  I woo’d not have this sinne scor’d on my head For all the Indaean Treasury.

King.  That song no more:  Doe this and I will make thee a great man.

Bal.  Is there no farther trick in’t, but my blow, your purse, and my pardon?

Mal.  No nets upon my life to entrap thee.

Bal.  Then trust me, these knuckles worke it.

King.  Farewell, be confident and sudden.