_Val_. The fellow is not dead but wounded, Sir. _Queen_. After him, _Malateste_; in our lodging Stay that rough fellow; hee's the man shall doo't: Haste, or my hopes are lost. [_Exit Mal_. Why are you sad, Sir? _King_. For thee, _Paullina_, swell my troubled thoughts, Like billowes beaten by too (two?) warring winds. _Queen_. Be you but rul'd by me, I'le make a calme Smooth as the brest of heaven. _King_. Instruct me how. _Queen_. You (as your fortunes tye you) are inclin'd To have the blow given. _King_. Where's the Instrument? _Queen_. 'Tis found in _Baltazar_. _King_. Hee's banished. _Queen_. True, But staid by me for this. _King_. His spirit is hot And rugged, but so honest that his soule Will ne're turn devill to do it. _Queen_. Put it to tryall: Retire a little: hither I'le send for him, Offer repeale and favours if he doe it; But if deny, you have no finger in't, And then his doome of banishment stands good. _King_. Be happy in thy workings; I obey. [_Exit_. _Queen_. Stay, _Lopez_. _Lop_. Madam. _Queen_. Step to our Lodging, _Lopez_, And instantly bid _Malateste_ bring The banish'd _Baltazar_ to us. _Lop_. I shall. [_Exit_. _Queen_. Thrive my blacke plots; the mischiefes I have set Must not so dye; Ills must new Ills beget. _Enter Malateste and Baltazar_. _Bal_. Now! what hot poyson'd Custard must I put my Spoone into now? _Queen_. None, for mine honour now is thy protection. _Mal_. Which, Noble Souldier, she will pawn for thee But never forfeit. _Bal_. 'Tis a faire gage; keepe it. _Queen_. Oh, _Baltazar_, I am thy friend, and mark'd thee When the King sentenc'd thee to banishment: Fire sparkled from thine eyes of rage and griefe; Rage to be doom'd so for a Groome so base, And griefe to lose thy country. Thou hast kill'd none: The Milke-sop is but wounded, thou art not banish'd. _Bal_. If I were I lose nothing; I can make any Countrey mine. I have a private Coat for _Italian_ Steeletto's, I can be treacherous with the _Wallowne_, drunke with the _Dutch_, a Chimney-sweeper with the _Irish_, a Gentleman with the _Welsh_[202] and turne arrant theefe with the _English_: what then is my Country to me? _Queen_. The King, who (rap'd with fury) banish'd thee, Shall give thee favours, yeeld but to destroy What him distempers. _Bal_. So; and what's the dish I must dresse? _Queen_. Onely the cutting off a paire of lives. _Bal_. I love no Red-wine healths. _Mal_. The King commands it; you are but Executioner. _Bal_. The Hang-man? An office that will hold as long as hempe lasts: why doe not you begge the office, Sir? _Queen_. Thy victories in field shall never crowne thee As this one Act shall. _Bal_. Prove but that, 'tis done. _Queen_. Follow him close; hee's yeelding. _Mal_. Thou shalt be call'd thy Countries Patriot For quenching out a fire now newly kindling In factious bosomes; and shalt thereby save More Noble Spanyards lives than thou slew'st Moores. _Queen_. Art thou not yet converted?