Bal.  There lay upon burnt straw ten thousand brave fellowes, all starke naked, some leaning upon Crownes, some on Miters, some on bags of gold; Glory in another Corner lay like a feather beaten in the raine; Beauty was turn’d into a watching Candle that went out stinking; Ambition went upon a huge high paire of stilts but horribly rotten; some in another nooke were killing Kings, and some having their elbowes shov’d forward by Kings to murther others:  I was (methought) halfe in hell my selfe whilst I stood to view this peece.

King.  Was this all?

Bal.  Was’t not enough to see that? a man is more healthfull that eats dirty puddings than he that feeds on a corrupted Conscience.

King.  Conscience! what’s that? a Conjuring booke ne’re open’d
Without the readers danger:  ’tis indeed
A scare-crow set i’th world to fright weake fooles. 
Hast thou seene fields pav’d o’re with carkasses
Now to be tender-footed, not to tread
On a boyes mangled quarters and a womans?

Bal.  Nay, Sir, I have search’d the records of the Low-Countries and finde that by your pardon I need not care a pinne for Goblins; and therefore I will doo’t, Sir:  I did but recoyle because I was double charg’d.

King.  No more; here comes a Satyre with sharpe hornes.

    Enter Cardinall, and Medina like a French Doctor.

Car.  Sir, here’s a Frenchman charg’d with some strange businesse Which to your close eare onely hee’ll deliver, Or else to none.

King.  A Frenchman?

Med.  We, Mounsire.

King.  Cannot he speake the Spanish?

Med.  Si Signior, vr Poco:—­Monsir, Acoutez in de Corner; me come for offer to your Bon gace mi trez humble service.  By gar no John fidleco shall put into your neare braver Melody dan dis vn petite pipe shall play upon to your great bon Grace.

King.  What is the tune you’ll strike up? touch the string.

Med.  Dis; me ha run up and downe mane Countrie and learne many fine ting and mush knavery; now more and all dis me know you ha jumbla de fine vench and fill her belly wid a Garsoone:  her name is le Madame—­

King. Onaelia.

Med.  She by gar:  Now, Monsire, dis Madam send for me to helpe her Malady, being very naught of her corpes (her body).  Me know you no point love a dis vensh; but, royall Monsire, donne Moy ten towsand French Crownes, she shall kicke up her taile, by gar, and beshide lye dead as dog in the shannell.

King.  Speake low.

Med.  As de bagge-pipe when the winde is puff, Garbeigh.

King.  Thou nam’st ten thousand Crownes; I’le treble them, Rid me but of this leprosie:  thy name?

Med.  Monsire Doctor Devile.

King.  Shall I a second wheele adde to this mischiefe To set it faster going? if one breake, Th’other may keepe his motion.