The Noble Spanish Soldier | Page 8

is embracing his new leman <11>,?Til want of rest bids him run mad and die,?For making oaths bawds to his perjury.
CORNEGO?Pray be more seasoned, if he make any bawds, he did ill, for there is enough of that fly-blown flesh already.
ONAELIA?I'm left quite naked now; all gone, all, all.
CORNEGO?No Madam, not all, for you cannot be rid of me.?Here comes your Uncle.
Enter Medina.
ONAELIA?Attired in robes of vengeance, are you uncle?
MEDINA?More horrors yet?
ONAELIA?'Twas never full till now,?And in this torrent all my hopes lie drowned.
MEDINA?Instruct me in the cause.
ONAELIA?The King, the contract!
Exit Onaelia.
CORNEGO?That's cud enough for you to chew upon.
Exit Cornego.
MEDINA?What's this? A riddle. How? The King, the contract.?The mischief I divine which proving true,?Shall kindle fires in Spain to melt his crown?Even from his head. Here's the decree of fate:?A black deed must a black deed expiate.
Exit Medina.
ACT 2 SCENE 1
Enter Balthazar, [having been] slighted by the Dons.
BALTHAZAR?Thou god of good apparel, what strange fellows are bound to do thee honour. Mercer's <12> books show men's devotions to thee. Heaven cannot hold a saint so stately. Do not my dons know me because I'm poor in clothes? Stood my beaten tailor plaiting my rich hose, my silk stocking man drawing upon my Lordship's courtly calf pairs of imbroidered things, whose golden clocks strike deeper to the faithful shop-keeper's heart, than into mine to pay him. Had my barber perfumed my lousy thatch here and poked out me tusks more stiff than are a cats muschatoes <13>, these pied-winged butterflies had known me then. Another fly-boat! <14> Save thee illustrious Don.
Enter Don Rodrigo.
Sir, is the King at leisure to speak Spanish with a poor Soldier?
RODRIGO?No
BALTHAZAR?No, Sirah, you, no! You Don with the ochre face, I wish to have thee but on a breach, stifling with smoke and fire. And for thy no, but whiffing gunpowder out of an iron pipe, I would but ask thee if thou would'st on, and if thou did'st cry no, thou should'st read Canon Law. I'd make thee roar, and wear cut-beaten-satin. I would pay thee though thou payest not thy mercer. Mere Spanish jennets! <15>
Enter Cockadillio.
Signor, is the King at leisure?
COCKADILLO?To do what?
BALTHAZAR?To hear a soldier speak.
COCKADILLO?I am no ear picker?To sound his hearing that way.
BALTHAZAR?Are you of court sir?
COCKADILLO?Yes, the King's barber.
BALTHAZAR?That's his ear picker. Your name, I pray.
COCKADILLO?Don Cockadillio?If, soldier, thou hast suits to beg at court,?I shall descend so low as to betray?Thy paper to the hand Royal.
BALTHAZAR?I beg, you whorson muscod <16>! My petition is written on my bosom in red wounds.
COCKADILLO?I am no barber-surgeon.
Exit Cockadillio.
BALTHAZAR?You yellowhammer, why, shaver: that such poor things as these, only made up of tailor's shreds and merchant's silken rags and 'pothecary drugs to lend their breath sophisticated smells, when their rank guts stink worse than cowards in the heat of battle. Such whaleboneddoublet rascals, that owe more to laundresses and seamsters for laced linen than all their race from their great grand-father to this their reign, in clothes were ever worth.?These excrements of silk worms! Oh that such flies do buzz about the beams of Majesty, like earwigs tickling a King's yielding ear with that court-organ, flattery, when a soldier must not come near the court gates twenty score, but stand for want of clothes, though he win towns, amongst the almsbasket-men! His best reward being scorned to be a fellow to the blackguard. Why should a soldier, being the world's right arm, be cut thus by the left, a courtier? Is the world all ruff and feather and nothing else? Shall I never see a tailor give his coat with a difference from a gentleman?
Enter King, Alanzo, Carlo, Cockadillio.
KING?My Balthazar!?Let us make haste to meet thee. How art thou altered??Do you not know him?
ALANZO?Yes Sir, the brave soldier?Employed against the Moors
KING?Half turned Moor!?I'll honour thee, reach him a chair, that table?And now, Aeneas-like, let thine own trumpet?Sound forth thy battle with those slavish Moors.
BALTHAZAR?My music is a Cannon, a pitched field my stage, Furies the actors, blood and vengeance the scene, death the story, a sword imbrued with blood, the pen that writes, and the poet a terrible buskined <17> tragical fellow, with a wreath about his head of burning match instead of bays.
KING?On to the battle.
BALTHAZAR?'Tis here without bloodshed. This our main battalia, that the van, this the vaw <18>, these the wings, here we fight, there they fly, here they insconce <19>, and here our sconces <20> lay seventeen moons on the cold earth.
KING?This satisfies my eye, but now my ear?Must have his music too. Describe the battle.
BALTHAZAR?The battle? Am I come from doing to talking? The hardest part for a soldier to play is to prate well. Our tongues are fifes, drums, petronels <21>, muskets, culverin <22> and cannon. These are our roarers, the clocks which we go by are our