sir, are you slumbering on your throne;
Or has all majesty fled from the earth,
That women must start up, and in your council
Speak, think, and act for ye; and, lest your vassals,
The very dirt beneath your feet, rise up
And cast ye off, must women, too, defend ye?
For shame, my lords, all, all of ye, for shame,--
Off, off with sword and sceptre, for there is
No loyalty in subjects; and in kings,
No king-like terror to enforce their rights.

Meanwhile Lautrec proposes to his sister Francoise, the hand of his friend,
the gallant Laval; whilst the fair maiden is importuned by Francis, who
endeavours to make the poet Clement Marot the bearer of his intrigue. In a
scene between Francis and the poet, the licentious impatience of the King,
and the unsullied honour of Clement are finely contrasted.

FRANCIS.

I would I'd borne the scroll myself, thy words
Image her forth so fair.

CLEMENT.

Do they, indeed?
Then sorrow seize my tongue, for, look you, sir,
I will not speak of your own fame or honour,
Nor of your word to me: king's words, I find,
Are drafts on our credulity, not pledges
Of their own truth. You have been often pleas'd
To shower your royal favours on my head;
And fruitful honours from your kindly will
Have rais'd me far beyond my fondest hopes;
But had I known such service was to be
The nearest way my gratitude might take
To solve the debt, I'd e'en have given back
All that I hold of you: and, now, not e'en
Your crown and kingdom could requite to me
The cutting sense of shame that I endur'd
When on me fell the sad reproachful glance
Which told me how I stood in the esteem
Of yonder lady. Let me tell you, sir,
You've borrow'd for a moment what whole years
Cannot bestow--an honourable name.
Now fare you well; I've sorrow at my heart,
To think your majesty hath reckon'd thus
Upon my nature. I was poor before,
Therefore I can be poor again without
Regret, so I lose not mine own esteem.

* * * * *

FRANCIS.

Excellent.
Oh, ye are precious wooers, all of ye.
I marvel how ye ever ope your lips
Unto, or look upon that fearful thing,
A lovely woman.

CLEMENT.

And I marvel, sir,
At those who do not feel the majesty,--
By heaven, I'd almost said the holiness,--
That circles round a fair and virtuous woman:
There is a gentle purity that breathes
In such a one, mingled wit