Med.  Esselent fort boone.

King. Baltazar,
To give thy Sword an edge againe, this Frenchman
Shall whet thee on, that if thy pistoll faile,
Or ponyard, this can send the poyson home.

Bal.  Brother Cain, wee’ll shake hands.

Med.  In de bowle of de bloody busher:  tis very fine wholesome.

King.  And more to arme your resolution,
I’le tune this Churchman so that he shall chime
In sounds harmonious.  Merit to that man
Whose hand has but a finger in that act.

Bal.  That musicke were worth hearing.

King.  Holy Father,
You must give pardon to me in unlocking
A Cave stuft full with Serpents which my State
Threaten to poyson; and it lyes in you
To breake their bed with thunder of your voyce.

Car.  How, princely sonne?

King.  Suppose an universall
Hot Pestilence beat her mortiferous wings
Ore all my Kingdome, am I not bound in soule
To empty all our Achademes of Doctors
And Aesculapian Spirits to charme this plague?

Car.  You are.

King.  Or had the Canon made a breach
Into our rich Escuriall, down to beat it
About our eares, shoo’d I to stop this breach
Spare even our richest Ornaments, nay our Crowne,
Could it keepe bullets off?

Car.  No, Sir, you should not.

King.  This Linstocke[211] gives you fire:  shall then that strumpet
And bastard breathe quicke vengeance in my face,
Making my kingdome reele, my subjects stagger
In their obedience, and yet live?

Car.  How? live!  Shed not their bloods to gaine a kingdome greater Then ten times this.

Med.  Pishe, not mattera how Red-cap and his wit run.

King.  As I am Catholike King I’le have their hearts Panting in these two hands.

Car.  Dare you turne Hang-man? 
Is this Religion Catholicke, to kill,
What even bruit beasts abhorre to doe, your owne! 
To cut in sunder wedlockes sacred knot
Tyed by heavens fingers! to make Spaine a Bonfire
To quench which must a second Deluge raine
In showres of blood, no water!  If you doe this
There is an Arme Armipotent that can fling you
Into a base grave, and your Pallaces
With Lightning strike and of their Ruines make
A Tombe for you, unpitied and abhorr’d. 
Beare witnesse, all you Lamps Coelestiall,
I wash my hands of this. (Kneeling.)

King.  Rise, my goon Angell, Whose holy tunes beat from me that evill spirit Which jogs mine elbow.—­Hence, thou dog of hell!

Med.  Baw wawghe.

King.  Barke out no more, thou Mastiffe; get you all gone,
And let my soule sleepe.—­There’s gold; peace, see it done.
          
                                        [Exit.