Massacre at Paris | Page 4

the Lord high Admirall.
NAVARRE. Prince Condy and my good Lord Admiral, Now Guise may storme but does us little hurt: Having the King, Queene Mother on our side, To stop the mallice of his envious heart, That seekes to murder all the Protestants: Have you not heard of late how he decreed, If that the King had given consent thereto, That all the protestants that are in Paris, Should have been murdered the other night?
ADMIRALL. My Lord I mervaile that th'aspiring Guise Dares once adventure without the Kings assent, To meddle or attempt such dangerous things.
CONDY. My Lord you need not mervaile at the Guise, For what he doth the Pope will ratifie: In murder, mischeefe, or in tiranny.
NAVARRE. But he that sits and rules above the clowdes, Doth heare and see the praiers of the just: And will revenge the bloud of innocents, That Guise hath slaine by treason of his heart, And brought by murder to their timeles ends.
ADMIRALL. My Lord, but did you mark the Cardinall The Guises brother, and the Duke Dumain: How they did storme at these your nuptiall rites, Because the house of Burbon now comes in, And joynes your lineage to the crowne ofFrance?
NAVARRE. And thats the cause that Guise so frowns at us, And beates his braines to catch us in his trap, Which he hath pitcht within his deadly toyle. Come my Lords lets go to the Church and pray, That God may still defend the right of France: And make his Gospel flourish in this land.
Exeunt.

[Scene ii]
Enter the Duke of Guise.
GUISE. If ever Hymen lowr'd at marriage rites, And had his alters decks with duskie lightes: If ever sunne stainde heaven with bloudy clowdes, And made it look with terrour on the worlde: If ever day were turnde to ugly night, And night made semblance of the hue of hell, This day, this houre, this fatall night, Shall fully shew the fury of them all. Apothecarie.--
Enter the Pothecarie.
POTHECARIE. My Lord.
GUISE. Now shall I prove and guerdon to the ful, The love thou bear'st unto the house of Guise: Where are those perfumed gloves which late I sent To be poysoned, hast thou done them? speake, Will every savour breed a pangue of death?
POTHECARIE. See where they be my Lord, and he that smelles but to them, dyes.
GUISE. Then thou remainest resolute.
POTHECARIE. I am my Lord, in what your grace commaundes till death.
GUISE. Thankes my good freend, I wil requite thy love. Goe then, present them to the Queene Navarre: For she is that huge blemish in our eye, That makes these upstart heresies in Fraunce: Be gone my freend, present them to her straite. Souldyer.--
Exit Pothecaier.
Enter a Souldier.
SOULDIER. My Lord.
GUISE. Now come thou forth and play thy tragick part, Stand in some window opening neere the street, And when thou seest the Admirall ride by, Discharge thy musket and perfourme his death: And then Ile guerdon thee with store of crownes.
SOULDIER. I will my Lord.
Exit Souldier.
GUISE. Now Guise, begin those deepe ingendred thoughts To burst abroad, those never dying flames, Which cannot be extinguisht but by bloud. Oft have I leveld, and at last have learnd, That perill is the cheefest way to happines, And resolution honors fairest aime. What glory is there in a common good, That hanges for every peasant to atchive? That like I best that flyes beyond my reach. Set me to scale the high Peramides, And thereon set the Diadem of Fraunce, Ile either rend it with my nayles to naught, Or mount the top with my aspiring winges, Although my downfall be the deepest hell. For this, I wake, when others think I sleepe, For this, I waite, that scorn attendance else: For this, my quenchles thirst whereon I builde, Hath often pleaded kindred to the King. For this, this head, this heart, this hand and sworde, Contrive, imagine and fully execute Matters of importe, aimed at by many, Yet understoode by none. For this, hath heaven engendred me of earth, For this, the earth sustaines my bodies weight, And with this wait Ile counterpoise a Crowne, Or with seditions weary all the worlde: For this, from Spaine the stately Catholic Sends Indian golde to coyne me French ecues: For this have I a largesse from the Pope, A pension and a dispensation too: And by that priviledge to worke upon, My policye hath framde religion. Religion: O Diabole. Fye, I am ashamde, how ever that I seeme, To think a word of such a simple sound, Of so great matter should be made the ground. The gentle King whose pleasure uncontrolde, Weakneth his body, and will waste his Realme, If I repaire not what he ruinates: Him as a childe I dayly winne with words, So that for proofe, he barely beares the