Alb.  ’Tis not our danger Nor the imprison’d Prince’s, for what Theefe Dares by base sacrilege rob the Church of him?

Carl.  At worst none can be lost but this slight fellow.

Med.  All build on this as on a stable Cube: 
If we our footing keepe we fetch him forth
And Crowne him King; if up we fly i’th ayre
We for his soules health a broad way prepare.

Daen.  They come.

    Enter Baltazar and Sebastian.

Med.  Thou knowest where To bestow him, Baltazar.

Bal.  Come Noble[206] Boy.

Alb.  Hide him from being discovered.

Bal.  Discover’d? woo’d there stood a troope of Moores
Thrusting the pawes of hungry Lions forth
To seize this prey, and this but in my hand;
I should doe something.

Seb.  Must I goe with this blacke fellow, Vncle?

Med.  Yes, pretty Coz; hence with him, Baltazar.

Bal.  Sweet child, within few minutes I’le change thy fate And take thee hence, but set thee at heavens gate.
                                     [Exeunt Bal. and Seb.

Med.  Some keepe aloof and watch this Souldier.

Carl.  I’le doo’t.

Daen.  What’s to be done now?

Med.  First to plant strong guard About the mother, then into some snare To hunt this spotted Panther and there kill him.

Daen.  What snares have we can hold him?

Med.  Be that care mine:  Dangers (like Starres) in darke attempts best shine.

[Exeunt.

(SCENE 2.)

Enter Cornego, Baltazar.

Cor.  The Lady Onaelia dresseth the stead[207] of her commendations in the most Courtly Attire that words can be cloth’d with, from her selfe to you by me.

Bal.  So, Sir; and what disease troubles her now?

Cor.  The King’s Evill; and here she hath sent something to you wrap’d up in a white sheet; you need not feare to open it, ’tis no coarse.

Bal.  What’s here? a letter minc’d into five morsels?  What was she doing when thou camest from her?

Cor.  At the pricke-song[208].

Bal.  So methinks, for here’s nothing but sol-Re-fa-mi.  What Crochet fils her head now, canst tell?

Cor.  No Crochets, ’tis onely the Cliffe has made her mad.

Bal.  What instrument playd she upon?

Cor.  A wind instrument, she did nothing but sigh.

Bal.  Sol, Ra, me, Fa, Mi.

Cor.  My wit has alwayes had a singing head; I have found out her Note, Captaine.

Bal.  The tune? come.

Cor.  Sol, my soule; re, is all rent and torne like a raggamuffin; me, mend it, good Captaine; fa, fa,—­whats fa, Captaine?