Bal.  Fa? why, farewell and be hang’d.

Cor.  Mi, Captaine, with all my heart.  Have I tickled my Ladies Fiddle well?

Bal.  Oh, but your sticke wants Rozen to make the string sound clearely.  No, this double Virginall being cunningly touch’d, another manner of Jacke[209] leaps up then is now in mine eye.  Sol, Re, me, fa, mi—­I have it now; Solus Rex me facit miseram.  Alas, poore Lady! tell her no Pothecary in Spaine has any of that Assa Fetida she writes for.

Cor. Assa Fetida? what’s that?

Bal.  A thing to be taken in a glister-pipe?

Cor.  Why, what ayles my Lady?

Bal.  What ayles she? why, when she cryes out Solus Rex me facit miseram, she sayes in the Hypocronicall language that she is so miserably tormented with the wind-Chollicke that it rackes her very soule.

Cor.  I said somewhat cut her soule in pieces.

Bal.  But goe to her and say the oven is heating.

Cor.  And what shall be bak’d in’t?

Bal.  Carpe pies, and besides tell her the hole in her Coat shall be mended; and tell her if the Dyall of good dayes goe true, why then bounce Buckrum.

Cor.  The Divell lyes sicke of the Mulligrubs.

Bal.  Or the Cony is dub’d, and three sheepskins—­

Cor.  With the wrong side outward.

Bal.  Shall make the Fox a Night-cap.

Cor.  So the Goose talkes French to the Buzzard.

Bal.  But, Sir, if evill dayes justle our prognostication to the wall, then say there’s a fire in the whore-masters Cod-peece.

Cor.  And a poyson’d Bagge-pudding in Tom Thumbes belly.

Bal.  The first cut be thine:  farewell!

Cor.  Is this all?

Bal.  Woo’t not trust an Almanacke?

Cor.  Nor a Coranta[210] neither, tho it were seal’d with Butter; and yet I know where they both lye passing well.

    Enter Lopez.

Lop.  The King sends round about the Court to seek you.

Bal.  Away, Otterhound.

Cor.  Dancing Beare, I’me gone. [Exit.

    Enter King attended.

King.  A private roome.—­ [Exeunt Omnes.  Is’t done? hast drawne thy two edg’d sword out yet?

Bal.  No, I was striking at the two Iron Barres that hinder your passage; and see, Sir. [Drawes.

King.  What meanst thou?

Bal.  The edge abated? feele.

King.  No, no, I see it.

Bal.  As blunt as Ignorance.

King.  How? put up—­So—­how?

Bal.  I saw by chance, hanging in Cardinall Alvarez Gallery, a picture of hell.

King.  So; what of that?