Chapter 2

_Enter_ MALICORN _solus._

_Mal._ Each dismal minute, when I call to mind The promise, that I made the Prince of Hell, In one-and-twenty years to be his slave, Of which near twelve are gone, my soul runs back, The wards of reason roll into their spring. O horrid thought! but one-and-twenty years, And twelve near past, then to be steeped in fire, Dashed against rocks, or snatched from molten lead, Reeking, and dropping, piece-meal borne by winds, And quenched ten thousand fathom in the deep!-- But hark! he comes: see there! my blood stands still, [_Knocking at the Door._ My spirits start on end for Guise's fate.

_A Devil rises._

_Mal._ What counsel does the fate of Guise require?

_Dev._ Remember, with his prince there's no delay. But, the sword drawn, to fling the sheath away; Let not the fear of hell his spirit grieve, The tomb is still, whatever fools believe: Laugh at the tales which withered sages bring, Proverbs and morals; let the waxen king, That rules the hive, be born without a sting; Let Guise by blood resolve to mount to power. And he is great as Mecca's emperor. He comes; bid him not stand on altar-vows, But then strike deepest, when he lowest bows; Tell him, fate's awed when an usurper springs, And joins to crowd out just indulgent kings. [_Vanishes._