of hungry Lions forth
To seize this prey, and this but in my hand;
I should doe something.

_Seb_. Must I goe with this blacke fellow, Vncle?

_Med_. Yes, pretty Coz; hence with him, _Baltazar_.

_Bal_. Sweet child, within few minutes I'le change thy fate
And take thee hence, but set thee at heavens gate.
[_Exeunt Bal. and Seb_.

_Med_. Some keepe aloof and watch this Souldier.

_Carl_. I'le doo't.

_Daen_. What's to be done now?

_Med_. First to plant strong guard
About the mother, then into some snare
To hunt this spotted Panther and there kill him.

_Daen_. What snares have we can hold him?

_Med_. Be that care mine:
Dangers (like Starres) in darke attempts best shine.

[_Exeunt_.

(SCENE 2.)

_Enter Cornego, Baltazar_.

_Cor_. The Lady Onaelia dresseth the stead[207] of her commendations in
the most Courtly Attire that words can be cloth'd with, from her selfe
to you by me.

_Bal_. So, Sir; and what disease troubles her now?

_Cor_. The King's Evill; and here she hath sent something to you wrap'd
up in a white sheet; you need not feare to open it, 'tis no coarse.

_Bal_. What's here? a letter minc'd into five morsels?
What was she doing when thou camest from her?

_Cor_. At the pricke-song[208].

_Bal_. So methinks, for here's nothing but sol-Re-fa-mi.
What Crochet fils her head now, canst tell?

_Cor_. No Crochets, 'tis onely the Cliffe has made her mad.

_Bal_. What instrument playd she upon?

_Cor_. A wind instrument, she did nothing but sigh.

_Bal_. Sol, Ra, me, Fa, Mi.

_Cor_. My wit has alwayes had a singing head; I have found out her Note,
Captaine.

_Bal_. The tune? come.

_Cor_. Sol, my soule; re, is all rent and torne like a raggamuffin; me,
mend it, good Captaine; fa, fa,--whats fa, Captaine?

_Bal_. Fa? why, farewell and be hang'd.

_Cor_. Mi, Captaine, with all my heart. Have I tickled my Ladies
Fiddle well?

_Bal_. Oh, but your sticke wants Rozen to make the string sound
clearely. No, this double Virginall being cunningly touch'd, another
manner of Jacke[209] leaps up then is now in mine eye. Sol, Re, me, fa,
mi--I have it now; _Solus Rex me facit miseram_. Alas, poore Lady! tell
her no Pothecary in Spaine has any of that _Assa Fetida_ she writes for.

_Cor_. _Assa Fetida_? what's that?

_Bal_. A thing to be taken in a glister-pipe?

_Cor_. Why, what ayles my Lady?

_