_King_. 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 none tho; or,
if I have, mine owne blood shed in your quarrels may begge my pardon;
my businesse was in haste to you.

_King_. I woo'd not have thy sinne scoar'd on my head
For all the Indian Treasury. I prethee tell me,
Suppose thou hast 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?

_King_. 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:
Begone upon thy life.

_Bal_. Well: farewell. [_Exit_.

_Val_. The fellow is not dead but wounded, Sir.

_Queen_. 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?

_King_. For thee, _Paullina_, swell my troubled thoughts,
Like billowes beaten by too (two?) warring winds.

_Queen_. Be you but rul'd by me, I'le make a calme
Smooth as the brest of heaven.

_King_. Instruct me how.

_Queen_. You (as your fortunes tye you) are inclin'd
To have the blow given.

_King_. Where's the Instrument?

_Queen_. 'Tis found in _Baltazar_.

_King_. Hee's banished.

_Queen_. True,
But staid by me for this.

_King_. His spirit is hot
And rugged, but so honest that his soule
Will ne're turn devill to do it.

_Queen_. Put it to tryall:
Retire a little: hither I'le send for him,
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.

_King_. Be happy in thy workings; I obey. [_Exit_.

_Queen_. Stay, _Lopez_.

_Lop_. Madam.

_Queen_. Step to our Lodging, _Lopez_,
And instantly bid _Malateste_ bring
The banish'd _Baltazar_ to us.

_Lop_. I shall. [_Exit_.

_Queen_. 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?

_Queen_. None, for mine honour now is thy protection.

_Mal_. Which, Noble Souldier, she will pawn for thee
But never forfeit.

_Bal_. 'Tis a faire gage; keepe it.

_Queen_. Oh, _Baltazar_,