Chapter 9

_Enter_ GUISE, MAYENNE, CARDINAL, _and_ ARCHBISHOP.

_May._ Sullen, methinks, and slow the morning breaks, As if the sun were listless to appear, And dark designs hung heavy on the day.

_Gui._ You're an old man too soon, you're superstitious; I'll trust my stars, I know them now by proof; The genius of the king bends under mine: Environed with his guards, he durst not touch me; But awed and cravened, as he had been spelled, Would have pronounced, Go kill the Guise, and durst not.

_Card._ We have him in our power, coop'd in his court. Who leads the first attack? Now by yon heaven, That blushes at my scarlet robes, I'll doff This womanish attire of godly peace, And cry,--Lie there, Lord Cardinal of Guise.

_Gui._ As much too hot, as Mayenne is too cool. But 'tis the manlier fault of the two.

_Arch._ Have you not heard the king, preventing day, Received the guards into the city gates, The jolly Swisses marching to their fifes? The crowd stood gaping, heartless and amazed, Shrunk to their shops, and left the passage free.

_Gui._ I would it should be so, 'twas a good horror[17]. First let them fear for rapes, and ransacked houses; That very fright, when I appear to head them, Will harden their soft city courages: Cold burghers must be struck, and struck like flints, Ere their hid fire will sparkle.

_Arch._ I'm glad the king has introduced these guards.

_Card._ Your reason.

_Arch._ They are too few for us to fear; Our numbers in old martial men are more, The city not cast in; but the pretence, That hither they are brought to bridle Paris, Will make this rising pass for just defence.

_May._ Suppose the city should not rise?

_Gui._ Suppose, as well, the sun should never rise: He may not rise, for heaven may play a trick; But he has risen from Adam's time to ours. Is nothing to be left to noble hazard? No venture made, but all dull certainty? By heaven I'll tug with Henry for a crown, Rather than have it on tame terms of yielding: I scorn to poach for power.

_Enter a Servant, who whispers_ GUISE.

A lady, say'st thou, young and beautiful, Brought in a chair? Conduct her in.-- [_Exit Servant._

_Card._ You would be left alone?

_Gui._ I would; retire. [_Exeunt_ MAY. CARD. _&c._

_Re-enter Servant with_ MARMOUTIERE, _and exit._

_Starting back._] Is't possible? I dare not trust my eyes! You are not Marmoutiere?

_Mar._ What am I then?

_Gui._ Why, any thing but she: What should the mistress of a king do here?

_Mar._ Find him, who would be master of a king.

_Gui._ I sent not for you, madam.

_Mar._ I think, my lord, the king sent not for you.

_Gui._ Do you not fear, your visit will be known?

_Mar._ Fear is for guilty men, rebels, and traitors: Where'er I go, my virtue is my guard.

_Gui._ What devil has sent thee here to plague my soul? O that I could detest thee now as much As ever I have loved, nay, even as much As yet, in spite of all thy crimes, I love! But 'tis a love so mixt with dark despair, The smoke and soot smother the rising flame, And make my soul a furnace. Woman, woman, What can I call thee more? if devil, 'twere less. Sure, thine's a race was never got by Adam, But Eve played false, engendering with the serpent, Her own part worse than his.

_Mar._ Then they got traitors.

_Gui._ Yes, angel-traitors, fit to shine in palaces, Forked into ills, and split into deceits; Two in their very frame. 'Twas well, 'twas well, I saw thee not at court, thou basilisk; For if I had, those eyes, without his guards, Had done the tyrant's work.

_Mar._ Why then it seems I was not false in all: I told you, Guise, If you left Paris, I would go to court: You see I kept my promise.

_Gui._ Still thy sex: Once true in all thy life, and that for mischief.

_Mar._ Have I said I loved you?

_Gui._ Stab on, stab: 'Tis plain you love the king.

_Mar._ Nor him, nor you, In that unlawful way you seem to mean. My eyes had once so far betrayed my heart, As to distinguish you from common men; Whate'er you said, or did, was charming all.

_Gui._ But yet, it seems, you found a king more charming.

_Mar._ I do not say more charming, but more noble, More truly royal, more a king in soul, Than you are now in wishes.

_Gui._ May be so: But love has oiled your tongue to run so glib,-- Curse on your eloquence!

_Mar._ Curse not that eloquence that saved your life: For, when your wild ambition, which defied A royal mandate, hurried you to town; When over-weening pride of popular power Had thrust you headlong in the Louvre toils, Then had you died: For know, my haughty lord, Had I not been, offended majesty Had doomed you to the death you well deserved.

_Gui._ Then was't not Henry's fear preserved my life?

_Mar._ You know him better, or you ought to know him: He's born to give you fear, not to receive it.

_Gui._ Say this again; but add, you gave not up Your honour as the ransom of my life; For, if you did, 'twere better I had died.

_Mar._ And so it were.

_Gui._ Why said you, so it were? For though 'tis true, methinks 'tis much unkind.

_Mar._ My lord, we are not now to talk of kindness. If you acknowledge I have saved your life, Be grateful in return, and do an act, Your honour, though unasked by me, requires.

_Gui._ By heaven, and you, whom next to heaven I love, (If I said more, I fear I should not lie,) I'll do whate'er my honour will permit.

_Mar._ Go, throw yourself at Henry's royal feet, And rise not till approved a loyal subject.

_Gui._ A duteous loyal subject I was ever.

_Mar._ I'll put it short, my lord; depart from Paris.

_Gui._ I cannot leave My country, friends, religion, all at stake. Be wise, and be before-hand with your fortune; Prevent the turn, forsake the ruined court; Stay here, and make a merit of your love.

_Mar._ No; I'll return, and perish in those ruins. I find thee now, ambitious, faithless, Guise. Farewell, the basest and the last of men!

_Gui._ Stay, or--O heaven!--I'll force you: Stay--

_Mar._ I do believe So ill of you, so villainously ill, That, if you durst, you would: Honour you've little, honesty you've less; But conscience you have none: Yet there's a thing called fame, and men's esteem, Preserves me from your force. Once more, farewell. Look on me, Guise; thou seest me now the last; Though treason urge not thunder on thy head, This one departing glance shall flash thee dead. [_Exit._

_Gui._ Ha, said she true? Have I so little honour? Why, then, a prize so easy and so fair Had never 'scaped my gripe: but mine she is; For that's set down as sure as Henry's fall. But my ambition, that she calls my crime;-- False, false, by fate! my right was born with me. And heaven confest it in my very frame; The fires, that would have formed ten thousand angels, Were crammed together for my single soul.

_Enter_ MALICORN.

_Mal._ My lord, you trifle precious hours away; The heavens look gaudily upon your greatness, And the crowned moments court you as they fly. Brisac and fierce Aumale have pent the Swiss, And folded them like sheep in holy ground; Where now, with ordered pikes, and colours furled, They wait the word that dooms them all to die: Come forth, and bless the triumph of the day.

_Gui._ So slight a victory required not me: I but sat still, and nodded, like a god, My world into creation; now 'tis time To walk abroad, and carelessly survey How the dull matter does the form obey. [_Exit with_ MALICORN.