Med.  There’s but two parts to play:  shame has done hers
But execution must close up the Scaene,
And for that cause these sprigs are worne by all,
Badges of Mariage, now of Funerall,
For death this day turns Courtier.

Bal.  Who must dance with him?

Med.  The King, and all that are our opposites;
That dart or this must flye into the Court,
Either to shoote this blazing starre from Spaine
Or else so long to wrap him up in clouds
Till all the fatall fires in him burne out,
Leaving his State and conscience cleere from doubt
Of following uprores.

Alb.  Kill not but surprize him.

Carl.  Thats my voyce still.

Med.  Thine, Souldier.

Bal.  Oh, this Collicke of a kingdome! when the wind of treason gets amongst the small guts, what a rumbling and a roaring it keepes! and yet, make the best of it you can, it goes out stinking.  Kill a King!  King!

Daen.  Why?

Bal.  If men should pull the Sun out of heaven every time ’tis ecclips’d, not all the Wax nor Tallow in Spaine woo’d serve to make us Candles for one yeare.

Med.  No way to purge the sicke State but by opening a veine.

Bal.  Is that your French Physicke? if every one of us shoo’d be whip’d according to our faults, to be lasht at a carts taile would be held but a flea-biting.

    Enter Signeor No:[216] Whispers Medina.

Med.  What are you? come you from the King?

No.  No.

Bal.  No? more no’s?  I know him, let him enter.

Med.  Signeor, I thanke your kind Intelligence.  The newes long since was sent into our eares, Yet we embrace your love; so fare you well.

Carl.  Will you smell to a sprig of Rosemary?

No.  No.

Bal.  Will you be hang’d?

No.  No.

Bal.  This is either Signeor No, or no Signeor.

Med.  He makes his love to us a warning-peece To arme our selves against we come to Court, Because the guard is doubled.

Omnes.  Tush, we care not.

Bal.  If any here armes his hand to cut off the head, let him first plucke out my throat.  In any Noble Act Ile wade chin-deepe with you:  but to kill a King!

Med.  No, heare me—­

Bal.  You were better, my Lord, saile 500 times to Bantam[217] in the West-Indies than once to Barathrum in the Low-Countries.  It’s hot going under the line there; the Callenture of the soule is a most miserable madnesse.

Med.  Turne, then, this wheele of Fate from shedding blood, Till with her owne hand Iustice weyes all.

Bal.  Good.

[Exeunt.

(SCENE 3.)