o 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_.

_Manent Medina, Baltazar, Cardinall_.

_Bal_. Sirra, you Salsa-Perilla Rascall, Toads-guts, you whorson pockey
French Spawne of a bursten-bellyed Spyder, doe you heare, Monsire?

_Med_. Why doe you barke and snap at my Narcissus as if I were de
Frenshe doag?

_Bal_. You Curre of