 | The Noble Sovldier. Or, A Contract Broken, Justly Reveng'd |  |
Actus Secundus,
Scœna Prima.
Enter Baltazar slighted by Dons.Bal.
Thou god of good Apparell, what strange fellowes
Are bound to doe thee honour! Mercers books
Shew mens devotions to thee; heaven cannot hold
A Saint so stately: Doe not my Dons know me
Because I'me poore in clothes? stood my beaten Taylor
Playting my rich hose, my silke stocking-man
Drawing upon my Lordships Courtly calfe
Payres of Imbroydred 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
Me Tuskes more stiffe than are a Cats muschatoes,
These pide-wing'd Butterflyes had knowne me then:
Another flye-boat! save thee, Illustrious Don.
Enter Don Roderigo.
Sir is the King at leisure to speake Spanish
With a poore Souldier?
Ro.
No.
Exit.
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 aske thee
If thou wood'st on, and if thou didst cry No,
Thou shudst read Canon-Law, I'de make thee roare,
Though thou payst not thy Mercer: meere Spanish Iennets,
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 Cockadilio:
If, Souldier, thou hast suits to begge at Court,
I shall descend so low as to betray
Thy paper to the hand Royall.
Bal.
I begge, you whorson muscod! my petition
Is written on my bosome in red wounds.
Cock.
I am no Barbar-Surgeon.
Exit.
Bal.
You yellow hammer, why shaver:
That such poore things as these, onely made up
Of Taylors shreds and Merchants silken rags,
And Pothecary drugs to lend their breath
Sophisticated smells, when their ranke guts
Stinke worse than cowards in the heat of battaile;
Such whalebond-doublet-rascals, that owe more
To Landresses and Sempsters for laced Linnen
Then all their race from their great grand-father
To this their reigne, in clothes were ever worth:
These excrements of Silke-wormes! oh that such flyes
Doe buzze about the beames of Majesty!
Like earwigs, tickling a Kings yeelding eare
With that Court-Organ (Flattery) when a souldier
Must not come neere the Court gates twenty score,
But stand for want of clothes, (tho he win Townes)
Amongst the Almesbasket-men! his best reward
Being scorn'd to be a fellow to the blacke gard:
Why shud a Souldier (being the worlds right arme)
Be cut thus by the left? (a Courtier?)
Is the world all Ruffe and Feather, and nothing else? shall
I never see a Taylor give his coat with a difference from a
Gentleman?
Enter King, Alanzo, Carlo, Cockadilio.
Kin.
My Baltazar!
Let us make haste to meet thee: how art thou alter'd?
Doe you not know him?
Alanz.
Yes, Sir, the brave Souldier
Employed against the Moores.
Kin.
Halfe turn'd Moore!
I'le honour thee, reach him a chaire, that Table,
And now Ænæas-like let thine owne Trumpet
Sound forth thy battell with those slavish Moores.
Bal.
My musicke is a Canon; a pitcht field my stage;
Furies the Actors, blood and vengeance the scæne; death
the story; a sword imbrued with blood, the pen that writes,
and the Poet a terrible buskind Tragicall fellow, with a
wreath about his head of burning match instead of Bayes.
Kin.
On to the Battaile.
Bal.
'Tis here without bloud-shed: This our maine
Battalia, that the Van, this the Vaw, these the wings, here
we fight, there they flye, here they insconce, and here our
sconces lay 17 Moones on the cold earth.
Kin.
This satisfies mine eye, but now mine eare
Must have his musicke too; describe the battaile.
Bal.
The Battaile? Am I come from doing to talking?
The hardest part for a Souldier to play is to prate well; our
Tongues are Fifes, Drums, Petronels, Muskets, Culverin
and Canon, these are our Roarers; the Clockes which wee
goe by, are our hands; thus wee reckon tenne, our swords
strike eleven, and when steele targets of proofe clatter one
against another, then 'tis noone, that's the height and the
heat of the day of battaile.
Kin.
So.
Bal.
To that heat we came, our Drums beat, Pikes were
shaken and shiver'd, swords and Targets clash'd and clatter'd,
Maskets ratled, Canons roar'd, men dyed groaning,
fought pell mell; here fell a wing, there heads were
tost like foot-balls; legs and armes quarrell'd in the ayre,
and yet lay quietly on the earth; horses trampled upon
heaps of Carkasses, Troopes of Carbines tumbled wounded
from their horses; we besiege Moores, and famine us, Mutinies
bluster and are calme; I vow'd not to doff mine Armour,
tho my flesh were frozen too't and turn'd into Iron,
nor to cut head nor beard till they yeelded; my hayres and
oath are of one length, for (with Cæsar) thus write I mine
owne story, Veni, vidi, vici.
Kin.
A pitch'd field quickly fought: our hand is thine;
And 'cause thou shalt not murmure that thy bloud
Was lavish'd forth for an ingratefull man,
Demand what we can give thee, and 'tis thine.
Bal.
Onely your love.
Kin.
'Tis thine, rise, Souldiers best accord
When wounds of wrongs are heal'd up by the sword.
Onælia beats at the doore.
Onæ.
Let me come in, I'le kill that treacherous King
The murderer of mine honour, let me come in.
Kin.
What womans voyce is that?
Omnes.
Medina's Neece.
Kin.
Bar out that fiend.
Onæ.
I'le teare him with my nayles,
Let me come in, let me come in, helpe, helpe me.
Kin.
Keepe her from following me; a gard.
Alanz.
They are ready, Sir.
Kin.
Let a quicke summons call our Lords together;
This disease kils me.
Bal.
Sir I would be private with you.
Kin.
Forbeare us, but see the dores well guarded.
Exeunt
Bal.
Will you, Sir, promise to give mee freedome of
speech?
Kin.
Yes I will, take it, speake any thing, 'tis pardon'd.
Bal.
You are a whoremaster; doe you send me to winne
Townes for you abroad, and you lose a kingdome at home?
What kingdome?
Bal.
The fayrest in the world, the kingdome of your fame,
Your honour.
Kin.
Wherein?
Bal.
I'le be plaine with you; much mischiefe is done by
the mouth of a Canon, but the fire begins at a little touch-hole;
you heard what Nightingale sung to you even now.
Kin.
Ha, ha, ha.
Bal.
Angels err'd but once and fell, but you, Sir, spit in
heavens face every minute, and laugh at it: laugh still; follow
your courses; doe; let your vices runne like your Kennels
of hounds yelping after you, till they plucke downe the
fayrest head in the heard, everlasting blisse.
Kin.
Any more?
Bal.
Take sinne as the English snuffe Tobacco, and scornfully
blew the smoake in the eyes of heaven, the vapour
flyes up in clowds of bravery; but when 'tis out, the coale is
blacke (your conscience,) and the pipe stinkes; a sea of
Rose-water cannot sweeten your corrupted bosome.
Kin.
Nay, spit thy venome.
Bal.
'Tis Aqua Cœlestis, no venome; for when you shall
claspe up those two books, never to be open'd againe, when
by letting fall that Anchor, which can never more bee
weighed up, your mortall Navigation ends: then there's no
playing at spurne-point with thunderbolts. A Vintner then
for unconscionable reckoning, or a Taylor for unmeasurable
Items shall not answer in halfe that feare you must.
Kin.
No more.
Bal.
I will follow Truth at the heeles, tho her foot beat
my gums in peeces.
Kin.
The Barber that drawes out a Lions tooth
Curseth his Trade; and so shalt thou.
Bal.
I care not.
Kin.
Because you have beaten a few base-borne Moores;
Me think'st thou to chastise? what's past I pardon,
Because I made the key to unlocke thy railing;
But if thou dar'st once more be so untun'd,
How now?
Enter Lords drawne.
Omnes.
In danger, Sir?
Kin.
Yes, yes, I am; but 'tis no point of weapon
Can rescue me; goe presently and summon
All our chiefe Grandoes, Cardinals, and Lords
Of Spaine to meet in Counsell instantly:
We call'd you forth to execute a businesse
Of another straine,—but 'tis no matter now
Thou dyest, when next thou furrowest up our brow.
Bal.
So: dye!
Exit.
Enter Cardinall, Roderigo, Albia, Dænia, Valasco.
Kin.
I find my Scepter shaken by enchantments
Charactred in this parchment, which to unloose,
I'le practise onely counter-charmes of fire,
And blow the spells of lightning into smoake:
Fetch burning Tapers.
Exeunt.
Car.
Give me Audience, Sir;
My apprehension opens me a way
To a close fatall mischiefe, worse then this
You strive to murder; O this Act of yours
Alone shall give your dangers life, which else
Can never grow to height; doe, Sir, but read
A booke here claspt up, which too late you open'd,
Now blotted by you with foule marginall notes.
Kin.
Art franticke?
Car.
You are so, Sir.
Kin.
If I be,
Then here's my first mad fit.
Car.
For Honours sake,
For love you beare to conscience.—
Kin.
Reach the flames:
Grandoes and Lords of Spaine be witnesse all
What here I cancell; read, doe you know this bond?
Omnes.
Our hands are too't.
Dæn.
'Tis your confirmed Contract
Now is your rage on fire, in such a presence
To have it mourne in Ashes?
Kin.
Marquesse Dænia,
Wee'll lend That tongue, when this no more can speake.
Car.
Deare Sir!
Kin.
I am deafe,
Playd the full consort of the Spheares unto me
Vpon their lowdest strings—so burne that witch
Who would dry up the tree of all Spaines Glories,
But that I purge her sorceries by fire:
Troy lyes in Cinders; let your Oracles
Now laugh at me if I have beene deceiv'd
By their ridiculous riddles: why (good father)
(Now you may freely chide) why was your zeale
Ready to burst in showres to quench our fury?
Car.
Fury indeed, you give it proper name:
What have you done? clos'd up a festering wound
Which rots the heart: like a bad Surgeon,
Labouring to plucke out from your eye a moate,
You thrust the eye cleane out.
Kin.
Th'art mad extempore:
What eye? which is that wound?
Car.
That Scrowle, which now
You make the blacke Indenture of your lust,
Altho eat up in flames, is printed here,
In me, in him, in these, in all that saw it,
In all that ever did but heare 'twas yours:
That scold of the whole world (Fame) will anon
Raile with her thousand tongues at this poore shift
Which gives your sinne a flame greater than that
You lent the paper; you to quench a wild fire,
Cast oyle upon it.
Kin.
Oyle to blood shall turne,
I'le lose a limbe before the heart shall mourne.
Exeunt.
Manent Dænia, Alba.
Dæn.
Hee's mad with rage or joy.
With both; with rage
To see his follies check'd, with fruitlesse joy
Because he hopes his Contract is cut off
Which Divine Iustice more exemplifies.
Enter Medina.
Med.
Where's the King?
Dæn.
Wrapt up in clouds of linghtning.
Med.
What has he done? saw you the Contract torne?
As I did heare a minion sweare he threatned.
Alb.
He tore it not, but burnt it.
Med.
Openly!
Dæn.
And heaven with us to witnesse.
Mæd.
Well, that fire
Will prove a catching flame to burne his kingdome.
Alb.
Meet and consult.
Med.
No more, trust not the ayre
With our projections, let us all revenge
Wrongs done to cur most hoble kinswoman;
Action is honours language, swords are tongues,
Which both speake best, and best do right our wrongs.
Exit.
Enter Onælia one way, Cornogo another.
Cor.
Madam, theres a beare without to speak with you.
One.
A Beare.
Cor.
Its a Man all hairye, and thats as bad.
One.
Who ist?
Cor.
Tis one Master Captaine Baltazar.
One.
I doe not know that Baltazar.
Cor.
He desires to see you: and if you love a water-spaniel
before he be shorne, see him.
Onæ.
Let him come in.
Enter Baltazar.
Cor.
Hist; a ducke, a ducke; there she is, Sir.
Bal.
A Souldiers good wish blesse you Lady.
Onæ.
Good wishes are most welcome (Sir) to me,
So many bad ones blast me.
Bal.
Doe you not know me?
Onæ.
I scarce know my selfe.
I ha beene at Tennis, Madam, with the King: I
gave him 15 and all his faults, which is much, and now I
come to tosse a ball with you.
Onæ.
I am bandyed too much up and downe already.
Cor.
Yes, shee has beene strucke under line, master Souldier.
Bal.
I conceit you, dare you trust your selfe alone with me?
Onæ.
I have beene laden with such weights of wrong,
That heavier cannot presse me: hence Cornego.
Cor.
Hence Cornego? stay Captaine: when man and woman
are put together, some egge of villany is sure to be sate
upon.
Exit
Bal.
What would you say to him should kill this man
That hath you so dishonoured?
Onæ.
Oh I woo'd crowne him
With thanks, praise, gold, and tender of my life.
Bal.
Shall I bee that Germane Fencer, and beat all the
knocking boyes before me? shall I kill him?
Onæ.
There's musick in the tongue that dares but speak it.
Bal.
That Fiddle then is in me, this arme can doo't, by
ponyard, poyson, or pistoll: but shall I doo't indeed?
Onæ.
One step to humane blisse is sweet revenge.
Bal.
Stay; what made you love him?
Onæ.
His most goodly shape
Marryed to royall vertues of his mind.
Bal.
Yet now you would divorce all that goodnesse; and
why? For a little lechery of revenge? it's a lye: the Burre
that stickes in your throat is a throane; let him out of his
messe of kingdomes; cut out but one, and lay Sicilia, Arragon,
Naples, or any else upon your trencher, and you'll
prayse Bastard for the sweetest wine in the world, and call
for another quart of it: 'Tis not because the man has left
you, but because you are not the woman you would be, that
mads you: A shee-cuckold is an untameable monster.
Onæ.
Monster of men thou art; thou bloudy villaine,
Traytor to him who never injur'd thee;
Dost thou professe Armes? and art bound in honour
Thy King and Country, and wood'st thou ruine both?
Bal.
You spurre me on too't.
Onæ.
True;
Worse am I then the horrid'st fiend in hell
To murder him whom once I lou'd too well:
For tho I could runne mad, and teare my haire,
And kill that godlesse man that turn'd me vile,
Though I am cheated by a perjurous Prince
Who has done wickednesse, at which even heauen
Shakes when the Sunne beholds it, O yet I'de rather
Ten thousand poyson'd ponyards stab'd my brest
Than one should touch his: bloudy slave! I'le play
My selfe the Hangman, and will Butcher thee
If thou but prick'st his finger.
Bal.
Saist thou me so! give me thy goll, thou art a noble
girle; I did play the Devils part, and roare in a feigned
voyce, but I am the honestest Devill that ever spet fire: I
would not drinke that infernall draught of a Kings blood,
to goe reeling to damnation, for the weight of the world in
Diamonds.
Onæ.
Art thou not counterfeit?
Bal.
Now by my skarres I am not.
Onæ.
I'le call thee honest Souldier then, and woo thee
To be an often Visitant.
Bal.
Your servant;
Yet must I be astone upon a hill,
For tho I doe no good, I'le not lye still.
Exeunt
| The Noble Sovldier. Or, A Contract Broken, Justly Reveng'd | |