_. Hee's gone, but no so farre gone as you are.

_Onae_. Cracke all in sunder, oh you battlements,
And grind me into powder!

_Corn_. What powder? come, what powder? when did you ever see a woman
grinded into powder? I am sure some of your sex powder men and pepper
'em too.

_Onae_. Is there a vengeance
Yet lacking to my ruine? let it fall,
Now let it fall upon me!

_Corn_. No, there has too much falne upon you already.

_Onae_. Thou villaine, leave thy hold! Ile follow him:
Like a rais'd ghost I'le haunt him, breake his sleepe,
Fright him as hee's embracing his new Leman
Till want of rest bids him runne mad and dye,
For making oathes Bawds to his perjury.

_Corn_. Pray be more reason'd: if he made any Bawdes he did ill, for
there is enough of that fly-blowne flesh already.

_Onae_. I'me now left naked quite:
All's gone, all, all!

_Corn_. No, Madam, not all; for you cannot be rid of me.--Here comes
your Uncle.

_Enter Medina_.

_Onae_. Attir'd in robes of vengeance are you, Uncle?

_Med_. More horrors yet?

_Onae_. 'Twas never full till now:
And in this torrent all my hopes lye drown'd.

_Med_. Instruct me in this cause.

_Onae_. The King! the Contract!
[_Exit_.

_Corn_. There's cud enough for you to chew upon.
[_Exit_.

_Med_. What's this? a riddle? how? the King, the Contract?
The mischiefe I divine which, proving true,
Shall kindle fires in Spaine to melt his Crowne
Even from his head: here's the decree of fate,--
A blacke deed must a blacke deed expiate.
[_Exit_.

_Actus Secundus_.

SCAENA PRIMA[186].

_Enter Baltazar, slighted by Dons_.

_Bal_. Thou god of good Apparell, what strange fellowes
Are bound to do thee honour! Mercers books
Shew mens devotions to thee; heaven cannot hold
A Saint so stately. Do not my Dons know
Because I'me poor in clothes? stood my beaten Taylor
Playting my rich hose, my silke stocking-man
Drawing upon my Lordships Courtly calfe
Payres of Imbroydered things whose golden clockes
Strike deeper to the faithfull shop-keepers heart
Than into mine to pay him;--had my Barbour
Perfum'd my louzy thatch here and poak'd out
My Tuskes more stiffe than are a cats muschatoes--
These pide-winged Butterflyes had known me then.
Another flye-boat?[187] save thee, Illust