Bal.  As French-men lose their haire:  here was too hot staying for him.

King.  Get thou, too, from my sight:  the Queen wu’d see thee.

Bal.  Your gold, Sir.

King.  Goe with Judas and repent.

Bal.  So men hate whores after lusts heat is spent; I’me gone, Sir.

King.  Tell me true,—­is he dead?

Bal.  Dead.

King.  No matter; ’tis but morning of revenge; The Sun-set shall be red and Tragicall. [Exit.

Bal.  Sinne is a Raven croaking[214] her owne fall.
          
                                  [Exit.

(SCENE 2.)

Enter Medina, Daenia, Alba, Carlo and the Faction,
with Rosemary in their hats.

Med.  Keepe lock’d the doore and let none enter to us But who shares in our fortunes.

Daen.  Locke the dores.

Alb.  What entertainment did the King bestow Vpon your letters and the Cardinals?

Med.  With a devouring eye he read ’em o’re Swallowing our offers into his empty bosome As gladly as the parched earth drinks healths Out of the cup of heaven.

Carl.  Little suspecting What dangers closely lye enambushed.

Daen.  Let not us trust to that; there’s in his brest Both Fox and Lion, and both those beasts can bite:  We must not now behold the narrowest loope-hole But presently suspect a winged bullet Flyes whizzing by our eares.

Med.  For when I let
The plummet fall to sound his very soule
In his close-chamber, being French-Doctor-like,
He to the Cardinals eare sung sorcerous notes;
The burthen of his song to mine was death,
Onaelia’s murder and Sebastians. 
And thinke you his voyce alters now?  ’Tis strange
To see how brave this Tyrant shewes in Court,
Throan’d like a god:  great men are petty starres
Where his rayes shine; wonder fills up all eyes
By sight of him:  let him but once checke sinne,
About him round all cry “oh excellent king! 
Oh Saint-like man!” but let this King retire
Into his Closet to put off his robes,
He like a Player leaves his parte off, too: 
Open his brest and with a Sunne-beame search it,
There’s no such man; this King of gilded clay
Within is uglinesse, lust, treachery,
And a base soule tho reard Colossus-high.

(Baltazar beats to come in.)

Daen.  None till he speakes and that we know his voyce:  Who are you?

Within Bal.  An honest house-keeper in Rosemary-lane, too, If you dwell in the same parish.

Med.  Oh ’tis our honest Souldier, give him entrance.

Enter Baltazar.

Bal.  Men show like coarses[215] for I meet few but are stuck with Rosemary:  everyone ask’d mee who was married to-day, and I told ’em Adultery and Repentance, and that shame and a Hangman followed ’em to Church.