_Bal_. If men should pull the Sun out of heaven every time 'tis ecclips'd, not all the Wax nor Tallow in Spaine woo'd serve to make us Candles for one yeare. _Med_. No way to purge the sicke State but by opening a veine. _Bal_. Is that your French Physicke? if every one of us shoo'd be whip'd according to our faults, to be lasht at a carts taile would be held but a flea-biting. _Enter Signeor No:[216] Whispers Medina_. _Med_. What are you? come you from the King? _No_. No. _Bal_. No? more no's? I know him, let him enter. _Med_. Signeor, I thanke your kind Intelligence. The newes long since was sent into our eares, Yet we embrace your love; so fare you well. _Carl_. Will you smell to a sprig of Rosemary? _No_. No. _Bal_. Will you be hang'd? _No_. No. _Bal_. This is either Signeor No, or no Signeor. _Med_. He makes his love to us a warning-peece To arme our selves against we come to Court, Because the guard is doubled. _Omnes_. Tush, we care not. _Bal_. If any here armes his hand to cut off the head, let him first plucke out my throat. In any Noble Act Ile wade chin-deepe with you: but to kill a King! _Med_. No, heare me-- _Bal_. You were better, my Lord, saile 500 times to _Bantam_[217] in the West-Indies than once to _Barathrum_ in the Low-Countries. It's hot going under the line there; the Callenture of the soule is a most miserable madnesse. _Med_. Turne, then, this wheele of Fate from shedding blood, Till with her owne hand Iustice weyes all. _Bal_. Good. [_Exeunt_. (SCENE 3.) _Queen_. Must then his Trul be once more sphear'd in Court To triumph in my spoyles, in my ecclipses? And I like moaping _Iuno_ sit whilst _Iove_ Varies his lust into five hundred shapes To steale to his whores bed? No, _Malateste_; Italian fires of Iealousie burn my marrow: For to delude my hopes the leacherous King Cuts out this robe of cunning marriage To cover his Incontinence, which flames Hot (as my fury) in his black desires. I am swolne big with child of vengeance now, And, till deliver'd, feele the throws of hell. _Mal_. Iust is your Indignation, high and noble, And the brave heat of a true Florentine. For Spaine Trumpets abroad her Interest In the Kings heart, and with a black cole drawes On every wall your scoff'd at injuries. As one that has the refuse of her sheets, And the sick Autumne of the weakned King, Where she drunke pleasures up in the full spring. _Queen_. That, _Malateste_, That, That Torrent wracks me; But _Hymens_ Torch (held downe-ward) shall drop out, And for it the mad Furies swing their brands About the Bride-chamber. _Mal_. The Priest that joyns them Our Twin-borne malediction. _Queen_. Lowd may it speake. _Mal_. The herbs and flowers to strew the wedding way Be Cypresse, Eugh, cold Colloquintida. _Queen_. Henbane and Poppey, and that magicall weed[218] Which Hags at midnight watch to catch the seed.