_Med_. First to plant strong guard About the mother, then into some snare To hunt this spotted Panther and there kill him. _Daen_. What snares have we can hold him? _Med_. Be that care mine: Dangers (like Starres) in darke attempts best shine. [_Exeunt_. (SCENE 2.) _Enter Cornego, Baltazar_. _Cor_. The Lady Onaelia dresseth the stead[207] of her commendations in the most Courtly Attire that words can be cloth'd with, from her selfe to you by me. _Bal_. So, Sir; and what disease troubles her now? _Cor_. The King's Evill; and here she hath sent something to you wrap'd up in a white sheet; you need not feare to open it, 'tis no coarse. _Bal_. What's here? a letter minc'd into five morsels? What was she doing when thou camest from her? _Cor_. At the pricke-song[208]. _Bal_. So methinks, for here's nothing but sol-Re-fa-mi. What Crochet fils her head now, canst tell? _Cor_. No Crochets, 'tis onely the Cliffe has made her mad. _Bal_. What instrument playd she upon? _Cor_. A wind instrument, she did nothing but sigh. _Bal_. Sol, Ra, me, Fa, Mi. _Cor_. My wit has alwayes had a singing head; I have found out her Note, Captaine. _Bal_. The tune? come. _Cor_. Sol, my soule; re, is all rent and torne like a raggamuffin; me, mend it, good Captaine; fa, fa,--whats fa, Captaine? _Bal_. Fa? why, farewell and be hang'd. _Cor_. Mi, Captaine, with all my heart. Have I tickled my Ladies Fiddle well? _Bal_. Oh, but your sticke wants Rozen to make the string sound clearely. No, this double Virginall being cunningly touch'd, another manner of Jacke[209] leaps up then is now in mine eye. Sol, Re, me, fa, mi--I have it now; _Solus Rex me facit miseram_. Alas, poore Lady! tell her no Pothecary in Spaine has any of that _Assa Fetida_ she writes for. _Cor_. _Assa Fetida_? what's that? _Bal_. A thing to be taken in a glister-pipe? _Cor_. Why, what ayles my Lady? _Bal_. What ayles she? why, when she cryes out _Solus Rex me facit miseram_, she sayes in the Hypocronicall language that she is so miserably tormented with the wind-Chollicke that it rackes her very soule. _Cor_. I said somewhat cut her soule in pieces. _Bal_. But goe to her and say the oven is heating. _Cor_. And what shall be bak'd in't? _Bal_. Carpe pies, and besides tell her the hole in her Coat shall be mended; and tell her if the Dyall of good dayes goe true, why then bounce Buckrum. _Cor_. The Divell lyes sicke of the Mulligrubs. _Bal_. Or the Cony is dub'd, and three sheepskins-- _Cor_. With the wrong side outward. _Bal_. Shall make the Fox a Night-cap. _Cor_. So the Goose talkes French to the Buzzard. _Bal_. But, Sir, if evill dayes justle our prognostication to the wall, then say there's a fire in the whore-masters Cod-peece. _Cor_. And a poyson'd Bagge-pudding in Tom Thumbes belly. _Bal_. The first cut be thine: farewell! _Cor_. Is this all? _Bal_. Woo't not trust an Almanacke?