_Med_. She by gar: Now, Monsire, dis Madam send for me to helpe her Malady, being very naught of her corpes (her body). Me know you no point love a dis vensh; but, royall Monsire, donne Moy ten towsand French Crownes, she shall kicke up her taile, by gar, and beshide lye dead as dog in the shannell. _King_. Speake low. _Med_. As de bagge-pipe when the winde is puff, Garbeigh. _King_. Thou nam'st ten thousand Crownes; I'le treble them, Rid me but of this leprosie: thy name? _Med_. Monsire Doctor _Devile_. _King_. Shall I a second wheele adde to this mischiefe To set it faster going? if one breake, Th'other may keepe his motion. _Med_. Esselent fort boone. _King_. _Baltazar_, To give thy Sword an edge againe, this Frenchman Shall whet thee on, that if thy pistoll faile, Or ponyard, this can send the poyson home. _Bal_. Brother _Cain_, wee'll shake hands. _Med_. In de bowle of de bloody busher: tis very fine wholesome. _King_. And more to arme your resolution, I'le tune this Churchman so 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.