 | The Noble Sovldier. Or, A Contract Broken, Justly Reveng'd |  |
Actus Tertius.
Scæna Prima.
Enter Malatiste and the Queene.Mal.
When first you came from Florence, wud the world
Had with an universal dire ecclipse
That you to Spaine had never found the way,
Here to be lost for ever.
Quee.
We from one Climate
Drew inspiration: as thou then hast eyes
To read my wrongs, so be thy head an Engine
To raise up ponderous mischiefe to the height,
And then thy hands the Executioners:
A true Italian Spirit is a ball
Of Wild-fire, hurting most when it seemes spent;
Great ships on small rockes beating oft, are rent;
And so let Spaine by us: but (Malateste)
Why from the Presence did you single me
Into this Gallery?
Mal.
To shew you, Madam,
The picture of your selfe, but so defac'd,
And mangled by proud Spanyards, it woo'd whet
A sword to arme the poorest Florentine
In your just wrongs.
Quee.
As how? let's see that picture.
Mal.
Here 'tis then: Time is not scarce foure dayes old
Since I, and certaine Dons (sharp-witted fellowes,
And of good ranke) were with two Iesuits
(Grave profound Schollers) in deepe argument
Of various propositions; at the last,
Question was movd touching your marriage,
And the Kings precontract.
Quee.
So; and what followed?
Mal.
Whether it were a question mov'd by chance,
Or spitefully of purpose (I being there,
And your owne Country-man) I cannot tell,
But when much tossing
Had bandyed both the King and you, as pleas'd
Those that tooke up the Rackets; in conclusion,
The Father Iesuits (to whose subtile Musicke
Every eare there was tyed) stood with their lives
In stiffe defence of this opinion—
Quee.
Say on.
Mal.
That the most Catholike King in marrying you,
Keepes you but as his whore.
Quee.
Are we their Theames?
Mal.
And that Medina's Neece (Onælia)
Is his true wife: her bastard sonne they said
(The King being dead) should claim and weare the Crown;
And whatsoever children you shall beare,
To be but bastards in the highest degree,
As being begotten in Adultery.
Quee.
We will not grieve at this, but with hot vengeance
Beat downe this armed mischiefe: Malateste!
What whirlewinds can we raise to blow this storme
Backe in their faces who thus shoot at me?
Mal.
If I were fit to be your Counsellor,
Thus would I speake: Feigne that you are with childe;
The mother of the Maids, and some worne Ladies,
Who oft have guilty beene to court great bellies,
May, tho it be not so, get you with childe
With swearing that 'tis true.
Quee.
Say 'tis beleev'd,
Or that it so doth prove?
Mal.
The joy thereof,
Together with these earth-quakes, which will shake
All Spaine, if they their Prince doe dis-inherit,
So borne, of such a Queene; being onely daughter
To such a brave spirit as the Duke of Florence,
All this buzzd into the King, he cannot chuse
But charge that all the Bels in Spaine eccho up
This Ioy to heaven; that Bone-fires change the night
To a high Noone, with beames of sparkling flames;
And that in Churches, Organs (charm'd with prayers)
Speake lowd for your most safe delivery.
Quee.
What fruits grow out of these?
Mal.
These; you must sticke
(As here and there spring weeds in banks of flowers)
To every mouth, and steale to you their whisperings.
Quee.
So.
Mal.
'Tis a plummet to sound Spanish hearts
How deeply they are yours: besides, a ghesse
Is hereby made of any faction
That shall combide against you; which the King seeing,
If then he will not rouze him like a Dragon
To guard his golden fleece, and rid his Harlot
And her base bastard hence, either by death,
Or in some traps of state, insnare them both,
Let his owne ruines crush him.
Quee.
This goes to tryall:
Be thou my Magicke-booke, which reading o're
Their counterspels wee'll breake; or if the King
Will not by strong hand fix me in his Throne,
But that I must be held Spaines blazing Starre,
Be it an ominous charme to call up warre.
Exeunt.
Enter Cornego, Onælia.
Corn.
Here's a parcell of mans flesh has beene hanging up
and downe all this morning to speake with you.
Onæ.
Is't not some executioner?
Cor.
I see nothing about him to hang in but's garters.
Onæ.
Sent from the King to warne me of my death:
I prethe bid him welcome.
Cor.
He sayes he is a Poet.
Onæ.
Then bid him better welcome:
Belike he's come to write my Epitaph,
Some scurvy thing I warrant; welcome Sir.
Enter Poet.
Poet.
Madam, my love presents this booke unto you.
Onæ.
To me? I am not worthy of a line,
Vnlesse at that line hang some hooke to choake me:
To the Most honour'd Lady—Onælia.
Reads
Fellow thou lyest, I'me most dishonoured:
Thou shouldst have writ to the most wronged Lady.
The Title of this booke is not to me,
Cor.
Your Verses are lam'd in some of their feet, Master
Poet.
Onæ.
What does it treat of?
Poet.
Of the sollemne Triumphs
Set forth at Coronation of the Queene.
Onæ.
Hissing (the Poets whirle-wind) blast thy lines:
Com'st thou to mocke my Tortures with her Triumphs?
Poet.
'Las Madam!
Onæ.
When her funerals are past,
Crowne thou a Dedication to my joyes,
And thou shalt sweare each line a golden verse:
Cornego, burne this Idoll.
Cor.
Your booke shall come to light, Sir.
Exit.
Onæ.
I have read legends of disastrous Dames;
Will none set pen to paper for poore me?
Canst write a bitter Satyre? brainlesse people
Doe call 'em Libels: dar'st thou write a Libell?
Poet.
I dare mix gall and poyson with my Inke.
Onæ.
Doe it then for me.
Poet.
And every line must be
A whip to draw blood.
Onæ.
Better.
Poet.
And to dare
The stab from him it touches: he that writes
Such Libels (as you call 'em) must lanch wide
The sores of mens corruptions, and even search
To'th quicke for dead flesh, or for rotten cores:
A Poets Inke can better cure some sores
Then Surgeons Balsum.
Onæ.
Vndertake that Cure,
And crowne thy verse with Bayes.
Poet.
Madam Ile doo't:
But I must haue the parties Character.
Onæ.
The King.
Poet.
I doe not love to plucke the quils
With which I make pens, out of a Lions claw:
I shall have scurvy ballads made of me,
Sung to the Hanging Tune. I dare not, Madam.
Onæ.
This basenesse followes your profession:
You are like common Beadles, apt to lash
Almost to death poore wretches not worth striking,
But fawne with slavish flattery on damn'd vices,
So great men act them: you clap hands at those,
Where the true Poet indeed doth scorne to guild
A gawdy Tombe with glory of his Verse,
Which coffins stinking Carrion: no, his lines
Are free as his Invention; no base feare
Can shake his penne to Temporize even with Kings,
The blacker are their crimes, he lowder sings.
Goe, goe, thou canst not write: 'tis but my calling
The Muses helpe, that I may be inspir'd:
Cannot a woman be a Poet, Sir?
Poet.
Yes, Madam, best of all; for Poesie
Is but a feigning, feigning is to lye,
And women practise lying more than men.
Onæ.
Nay, but if I shoo'd write, I woo'd tell truth:
How might I reach a lofty straine?
Poet.
Thus, Madam:
Bookes, Musicke, Wine, brave Company, and good Cheere,
Make Poets to soare high, and sing most cleare.
Onæ.
Are they borne Poets?
Poet.
Yes.
Onæ.
Dye they?
Poet.
Oh never dye.
Onæ.
My misery is then a Poet sure,
For Time has given it an Eternity:
What sorts of Poets are there?
Poet.
Two sorts, Lady:
The great Poets, and the small Poets.
Onæ.
Great and small!
Which doe you call the great? the fat ones?
Poet.
No: but such as have great heads, which emptied forth,
Fellowes which swell bigge with the wind of praise:
The small ones are but shrimpes of Poesie.
Onæ.
Which in the kingdome now is the best Poet?
Poet.
Emulation.
Onæ.
Which the next?
Poet.
Necessity.
Onæ.
And which the worst?
Poet.
Selfe-love.
Onæ.
Say I turne Poet, what should I get?
Poet.
Opinion.
Onæ.
'Las I have got too much of that already;
Opinion is my Evidence, Iudge, and Iury;
Mine owne guilt, and opinion, now condemne me;
I'le therefore be no Poet; no, nor make
Ten Muses of your nine; I sweare for this;
Verses, tho freely borne, like slaves are sold,
I Crowne thy lines with Bayes, thy love with gold:
So fare thou well.
Poet.
Our pen shall honour you.
Exit.
Enter Cornego.
Cor.
The Poets booke, Madam, has got the Inflammation
of the Livor, it dyed of a burning Feaver.
Onæ.
What shall I doe, Cornego? for this Poet
Has fill'd me with a fury: I could write
Strange Satyrs now against Adulterers,
And Marriage-breakers.
Cor.
I beleeve you, Madam;—but here comes your
Vncle.
Enter Medina, Alanzo, Carlo, Alba, Sebastian, Denia.
Med.
Where's our Neece?
Turne your braines round, and recollect your spirits,
And see your Noble friends and kinsmen ready
To pay revenge his due.
Onæ.
That word Revenge
Startles my sleepy Soule, now throughly wakend
By the fresh Object of my haplesse childe,
Seb.
How doth my sweet mother?
Onæ.
How doth my prettiest boy?
Alanz.
Wrongs, like great whirlewinds,
Shake highest Battlements; few for heaven woo'd care.
Shoo'd they be ever happy: they are halfe gods
Who both in good dayes, and good fortune share.
Onæ.
I have no part in either.
Carl.
You shall in both,
Can Swords but cut the way.
Onæ.
I care not much, so you but gently strike him,
And that my Child escape the lightning.
Med.
For that our Nerves are knit; is there not here
A promising face of manly princely vertues,
And shall so sweet a plant be rooted out
By him that ought to fix it fast i'th ground?
Sebastian, what will you doe to him that hurts your mother?
Seb.
The King my father shall kill him I trow.
Dan.
But, sweet Coozen, the King loves not your mother.
Seb.
I'le make him love her when I am a King.
Med.
La you, there's in him a Kings heart already:
As therefore we before together vow'd,
Lay all your warlike hands upon my Sword,
And sweare.
Seb.
Will you sweare to kill me, Vncle?
Med.
Oh not for twenty worlds.
Seb.
Nay then draw and spare not, for I love fighting.
Med.
Stand in the midst (sweet Cooz) we are your guard;
These Hammers shall for thee beat out a Crowne
If all hit right; sweare therefore (Noble friends)
By your high bloods, by true Nobility,
By what you owe Religion, owe to your Country,
Owe to the raising your posterity,
By love you beare to vertue, and to Armes,
(The shield of Innocence) sweare not to sheath
Your Swords, when once drawne forth.
Onæ.
Oh not to kill him
Med.
(Will you be quiet?)
Your Swords when once drawne forth, till they ha forc'd
Yon godlesse, perjurous, perfidious man,—
Onæ.
Pray raile not at him so.
Med.
Art mad? y'are idle:—till they ha forc'd him
To cancell his late lawlesse bond he seal'd
At the high Altar to his Florentine Strumpet,
And in his bed lay this his troth-plight wife.
Onæ.
I, I, that's well; pray sweare.
Omnes.
To this we sweare.
Seb.
Vncle, I sweare too.
Med.
Our forces let's unite, be bold and secret,
And Lion-like with open eyes let's sleepe,
Streames smooth and slowly running, are most deepe.
Exeunt.
Enter King, Queene, Malateste, Valasco, Lopez.
Kin.
The Presence doore be guarded; let none enter
On forfeit of your lives, without our knowledge:
Oh you are false Physitians all unto me,
You bring me poyson, but no Antidotes.
Quee.
Your selfe that poyson brewes.
Kin.
Prethe no more.
Quee.
I will, I must speake more.
Kin.
Thunder aloud.
Quee.
My child, yet newly quickned in my wombe,
Is blasted with the fires of Bastardy.
Kin.
Who! who dares once but thinke so in his dreame?
Mal.
Medina's faction preach'd it openly.
Kin.
Be curst he and his Faction: oh how I labour
For these preventions! but so crosse is Fate,
My ills are ne're hid from me, but their Cures:
What's to be done?
Quee.
That which being left undone,
Your life lyes at the stake: let 'em be breathlesse
Both brat and mother.
Kin.
Ha!
She playes true Musicke, Sir:
The mischiefes you are drench'd in are so full,
You need not feare to adde to 'em; since now
No way is left to guard thy rest secure,
But by a meanes like this.
Lop.
All Spaine rings forth
Medina's name, and his Confederates.
Rod.
All his Allyes and friends rush into troopes
Like raging Torrents.
Val.
And lowd Trumpet forth
Your perjuries: seducing the wild people,
And with rebellious faces threatning all.
Kin.
I shall be massacred in this their spleene,
E're I have time to guard my selfe; I feele
The fire already falling: where's our guard?
Mal
Planted at Garden gate, with a strict charge
That none shall enter but by your command.
Kin.
Let 'em be doubled: I am full of thoughts,
A thousand wheeles tosle my incertaine feares,
There is a storme in my hot boyling braines,
Which rises without wind, a horrid one:
What clamor's that?
Quee.
Some treason: guard the King.
Enter Baltazar drawne; one of the Guard fals.
Bal.
Not in?
Mal.
One of your guard's slaine, keepe off the murderer.
Bal.
I am none, Sir.
Val.
There's a man drop'd downe by thee.
Kin.
Thou desperate fellow, thus presse in upon us!
Is murder all the story we shall read?
What king can stand, when thus his Subjects bleed?
What hast thou done?
Bal.
No hurt.
Kin.
Plaid even the Wolfe,
And from a fold committed to my charge,
Stolne and devour'd one of the flocke.
Bal.
Y'ave sheepe enow for all that, Sir; I have kill'd
may begge my pardon; my businesse was in haste to
you.
Kin.
I woo'd not have thy sinne scoar'd on my head
For all the Indian Treasury: I prethe tell me,
Suppose thou hadst our pardon, O can that cure
Thy wounded conscience, can there my pardon helpe thee?
Yet having deserv'd well both of Spaine and us,
We will not pay thy worth with losse of life,
But banish thee for ever.
Bal.
For a Groomes death?
Kin.
No more: we banish thee our Court and kingdome:
A King that fosters men so dipt in blood,
May be call'd mercifull, but never good:
Be gone upon thy life.
Bal.
Well: farewell.
Exit.
Val.
The fellow is not dead but wounded, Sir.
Quee.
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?
Kin.
For thee, Paulina, swell my troubled thoughts,
Like billowes beaten by too warring winds.
Quee.
Be you but rul'd by me, I'le make a calme
Smooth as the brest of heaven.
Kin.
Instruct me how.
Quee.
You (as your fortunes tye you) are inclin'd
To have the blow given.
Kin.
Where's the Instrument?
Quee.
'Tis sound in Baltazar.
Kin.
Hee's banish'd.
Quee.
True,
But staid by me for this.
Kin.
His spirit is hot
And rugged, but so honest, that his soule
Will ne're turne devill to doe it.
Quee.
Put it to tryall:
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.
Kin.
Be happy in thy workings; I obey.
Exit
Quee.
Stay Lopez.
Lop.
Madam.
Quee.
Step to our Lodging (Lopez)
And instantly bid Malateste bring
The banish'd Baltazar to us.
Lop.
I shall.
Exit.
Quee.
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?
Quee.
None, for mine honour now is thy protection.
Mal.
Which, Noble Souldier, she will pawne for thee,
But never forfeit.
Bal.
'Tis a faire gage, keepe it.
Quee.
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 County: 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 Country
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, and turne arrant theefe with the English, what then
is my Country to me?
Quee.
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?
Quee.
Onely the cutting off a paire of lives.
I love no Red-wine healths.
Mal.
The King commands it, you are but Executioner.
Bal.
The Hang-man? An office that will hold so long as
hempe lasts, why doe not you begge the office, Sir?
Quee.
Thy victories in field did never crowne thee
As this one Act shall.
Bal.
Prove but that, 'tis done.
Quee.
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.
Quee.
Art thou not yet converted?
Bal.
No point.
Quee.
Read me then:
Medina's Neece (by a Contract from the King)
Layes clayme to all that's mine, my Crowne, my bed;
A sonne she has by him must fill the Throne,
If her great faction can but worke that wonder:
Now heare me—
Bal.
I doe with gaping eares.
Quee.
I swell with hopefull issue to the King.
Bal.
A brave Don call you mother.
Mal.
Of this danger
The feare afflicts the King.
Bal.
Cannot much blame him.
Quee.
If therefore by the riddance of this Dame—
Bal.
Riddance? oh! the meaning on't is murder.
Mal.
Stab her, or so, that's all.
Quee.
That Spaine be free from frights, the King from feares
And I, now held his Infamy, be called Queene,
The Treasure of the kingdome shall lye open
To pay thy Noble darings.
Bal.
Come, I le doo't, provided I heare Jove call to me,
tho he rores; I must have the Kings hand to this warrant
else I dare not serve it upon my Conscience.
Quee.
Be firme then; behold the King is come.
Bal.
Acquaint him.
Quee.
I found the mettall hard, but with oft beating
Hee's now so softned, he shall take impression
From any seale you give him.
Kin.
Baltazar, come hither, listen; whatsoe're our Queene
Has importun'd thee to touching Onælia,
Neece to the Constable, and her young sonne,
My voyce shall second it, and signe her promise.
Bal.
Their riddance?
Kin.
That.
Bal.
What way? by poyson?
Kin.
So.
Bal.
Starving? or strangling, stabbing, smothering?
Quee.
Good.
Kin.
Any way so 'tis done.
Bal.
But I will have, Sir,
This under your owne hand, that you desire it,
You plot it, set me on too't.
Kin.
Penne, Inke, and paper.
Bal.
And then as large a pardon as law and wit
Can engrosse for me.
Kin.
Thou shalt ha my pardon.
Bal.
A word more, Sir, pray will you tell me one thing?
Kin
Yes any thing, deare Baltazar.
Bal.
Suppose
I have your strongest pardon, can that cure
My wounded Conscience? can there your pardon help me?
you not onely knocke the Ewe a'th head, but cut the Innocent
Lambes throat too, yet you are no Butcher.
Quee.
Is this thy promis'd yeelding to an Act
So wholesome for thy Country?
Kin.
Chide him not.
Bal.
I woo'd not have this sinne scor'd on my head
For all the Indæan Treasury.
Kin.
That song no more:
Doe this and I will make thee a great man.
Is there no farther tricke in't, but my blow, your
purse, and my pardon?
Mal.
No nets upon my life to entrap thee.
Bal.
Then trust me: these knuckles worke it.
Kin.
Farewell, be confident and sudden.
Bal.
Yes:
Subjects may stumble, when Kings walke astray;
Thine Acts shall be a new Apocrypha.
Exeunt.
| The Noble Sovldier. Or, A Contract Broken, Justly Reveng'd | |