_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, Illustrious Don. _Enter Don Roderigo_. Sir, is the king at leisure to speake Spanish With a poore Souldier? _Ro_. No. _Bal_. No! sirrah you, no; You Don with th'oaker face, I wish to ha thee But on a Breach, stifling with smoke and fire, And for thy 'No' but whiffing Gunpowder Out of an Iron pipe, I woo'd but ask thee If thou wood'st on, and if thou didst cry No Thou shudst read Canon-Law; I'de make thee roare And weare cut-beaten-sattyn: I woo'd pay thee Though thou payst not thy mercer,--meere Spanish Jennets! _Enter Cockadillio_. Signeor, is the king at leisure? _Cock_. To doe what? _Balt_. To heare a Souldier speake. _Cock_. I am no eare-picker To sound his hearing that way. _Bal_. Are you of Court, Sir? _Cock_. Yes, the kings Barber. _Bal_. That's his eare picker.--Your name, I pray? _Cock_. Don _Cockadillio_. If, Souldier, thou hast suits to begge at Court I shall descend so low as to betray Thy paper to the hand Royall.