Queen.  What fruits grow out of these?

Mal.  These; you must sticke (As here and there spring weeds in banks of flowers) Spies amongst the people, who shall lay their eares To every mouth and steale to you their whisperings.

Queen.  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 combine 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.

Queen.  This goes to tryall;
Be thou my Magicke booke, which reading o’re
Their counterspells 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.

(SCENE 2.)

Enter Cornego, Onaelia.

Corn.  Here’s a parcell of mans flesh has beene hanging up and downe all this morning to speake with you.

Onae.  Is’t not some executioner?

Corn.  I see nothing about him to hang in but’s garters.

Onae.  Sent from the king to warne me of my death:  I prethe bid him welcome.

Cor.  He says he is a Poet.

Onae.  Then bid him better welcome:  Belike he’s come to write my Epitaph,—­ Some[198] scurvy thing, I warrant:  welcome, Sir.

    Enter Poet.

Poet.  Madam[199], my love presents this book unto you.

Onae.  To me?  I am not worthy of a line, Vnlesse at that line hang some hooke to choake me.  ‘To the most honoured Lady—­Onaelia’ 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; I teare it therefore as mine Honour’s torne.

Cor.  Your Verses are lam’d in some of their feet, Master Poet.

Onae.  What does it treate of?

Poet.  Of the sollemne Triumphs Set forth at Coronation of the Queene.

Onae.  Hissing (the Poets whirle-wind) blast thy lines!  Com’st thou to mocke my Tortures with her Triumphs?

Poet.  ’Las, Madam!

Onae.  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.

Onae.  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?