Mac.  Y’are a good Lady.

Med.  Lady, untill they come, repose your selfe.

[Exit Eleonora.

Mac.  How now? so soone come back? why thus returned?

    Enter Pike & a Gentleman, with Letters.

Gen.  Our Journey to Madrid the Kinge himselfe
Cutts off, by these his royall letters sent
Upon the wings of speed to all your Graces. 
He lay one night since at your house, my Lord
Where, by your noble Wife, he had a wellcome
Fitting his greatnes & your will.

Alq.  I’me glad of’t.

Mac.  The King, our Master, writes heere, Englishman, He has lost a subiect by you; yet referres Himselfe to us about you.

Pike.  Againe, I stand heere
To lay my own life downe, please his high Maiesty
To take it:  for what’s lost his fate to fall
Was fortune de la guerre, & at the feete
Of his most royal Maiesty & at yours
(My Princely Lords & Judges) low as th’earth
I throw my wretched selfe & begg his mercy.

Mac.  Stand up; that mercy which you aske is signd By our most royall master.

Pike.  My thankes to heaven, him & your Graces.

Mac.  The King further writes heere,
That though your Nation came in Thunder hither
Yet he holds out to you his Enemy
2 friendly proffers:  serve him in his dominions
Eyther by land or sea, & thou shalt live
Upon a golden pension, such a harvest
As thou nere reapst in England.

Pike.  His kingly favours
Swell up in such high heapes above my merit,
Could I reare up a thousand lives, they cannot
Reach halfe the way.  Ime his, to be his Vassaile,
His Gally Slave, please you to chaine me to the oare;
But, with his highnes pardon & your allowance,
I beg one Boone.

All.  What is’t?

Pike.  That I may once more
See my owne Country Chimneys cast out smoake. 
I owe my life and service to the King,
(The king of England) let me pay that Bond
Of my allegeance; &, that being payd,
There is another obligation,
One to a woefull Wife & wretched Children
Made wretched by my misery.  I therefore beg,
Intreat, emplore, submissively hold up my hands
To have his Kingly pitty & yours to lett me goe.

All. [Alq.?] Let him ene goe.

Mac.  Well, since we cannot win you to our service,
We will not weane you from your Countryes love. 
The king, our lord, commands us here to give you
A hundred pistoletts to beare you home.

Pike.  A royall bounty, which my memory
Shall never loose; no, nor these noble favours
Which from the Lady Marquesse Alquevezze
Raynd plenteously on me.

Alq.  What did she to thee?