QUEEN This goes to trial. Be thou my magic book, which reading o'er Their counterspells we'll break; or if the King Will not by strong hand fix me in his Throne, But that I must be held Spain's blazing star, Be it an ominous charm to call up war.
CORNEGO Here's a parcel of man's flesh has been hanging up and down all this morning to speak with you.
CORNEGO I see nothing about him to hang in but his garters.
ONAELIA Sent from the King to warn me of my death: I prithee bid him welcome.
ONAELIA Then bid him better welcome. Belike he's come to write my epitaph, Some scurvy thing I'll warrant. Welcome Sir.
POET Madam, my love presents this book unto you.
ONAELIA To me? I am not worthy of a line, Unless at that Line hang some hook to choke me:
To the Most Honoured Lady - Onaelia. Fellow thou liest, I'm most dishonoured: Thou should'st have writ to the most wronged Lady. The title of this book is not to me, I tear it therefore as mine honour's torn.
CORNEGO Your verses are lamed in some of their feet, Master poet.
POET Of the solemn triumphs Set forth at coronation of the Queen.
ONAELIA Hissing, the poet's whirlwind, blast thy lines! Com'st thou to mock my tortures with her triumphs?
ONAELIA When her funerals are past, Crown thou a dedication to my joys, And thou shalt swear each line a golden verse. Cornego, burn this idol.
CORNGO Your book shall come to light, Sir.
ONAELIA I have read legends of disastrous dames; Will none set pen to paper for poor me? Canst write a bitter satire? Brainless people Do call them libels. Darest thou write a libel?
POET I dare mix gall and poison with my ink.
POET And every line must be A whip to draw blood.
POET And to dare The stab from him it touches. He that writes Such libels, as you call them, must launch wide The sores of men's corruptions, and even search To the quick for dead flesh, or for rotten cores: A poet's ink can better cure some sores Than surgeon's balsam.
ONAELIA Undertake that cure And crown thy verse with bays.
POET Madam, I'll do it, But I must have the party's character.
POET I do not love to pluck the quills, With which I make pens, out of a lion's claw. The King! Should I be bitter 'gainst the King, I shall have scurvy ballads made of me, Sung to the hanging tune. I dare not, Madam.