, interest, were the world to buy him,
Shall make a brave man smile, and do a murder?
Therefore I hate the memory of Brutus,
I mean the latter, so cried up in story.
Caesar did ill, but did it in the sun,
And foremost in the field; but sneaking Brutus,
Whom none but cowards and white-livered knaves
Would dare commend, lagging behind his fellows,
His dagger in his bosom, stabbed his father.
This is a blot, which Tully's eloquence
Could ne'er wipe off, though the mistaken man
Makes bold to call those traitors,--men divine.

_Alph._ Tully was wise, but wanted constancy.

_Enter Queen Mother, and Abbot_ DELBENE.

_Qu. M._ Good-even, sir; 'tis just the time you ordered
To wait on your decrees.

_King._ Oh, madam!

_Qu. M._ Sir?

_King._ Oh mother,--but I cannot make it way;--
Chaos and shades,--'tis huddled up in night.

_Qu. M._ Speak then, for speech is morning to the mind;
It spreads the beauteous images abroad,
Which else lie furled and clouded in the soul.

_King._ You would embark me in a sea of blood.

_Qu. M._ You see the plot directly on your person;
But give it o'er, I did but state the case.
Take Guise into your heart, and drive your friends;
Let knaves in shops prescribe you how to sway,
And, when they read your acts with their vile breath,
Proclaim aloud, they like not this or that;
Then in a drove come lowing to the Louvre,
And cry,--they'll have it mended, that they will,
Or you shall be no king.

_King._ 'Tis true, the people
Ne'er know a mean, when once they get the power;
But O, if the design we lay should fail,
Better the traitors never should be touched,
If execution cries not out--'Tis done.

_Qu. M._ No, sir, you cannot fear the sure design:
But I have lived too long, since my own blood
Dares not confide in her that gave him being.

_King._ Stay, madam, stay; come back, forgive my fears,
Where all our thoughts should creep like deepest streams:
Know, then, I hate aspiring Guise to death;
Whored Margarita,--plots upon my life,--
And shall I not revenge?[7]

_Qu. M._ Why, this is Harry;
Harry at Moncontour, when in his bloom
He saw the admiral Coligny's back.[8]

_King._ O this whale Guise, with all the Lorrain fry!
Might I but view him, after his plots and plunges,
Struck on those cowring shallows that await him,--
This were a Florence master-piece indeed.

_Qu. M._ He comes to take his leave.

_King._ Then for Champaigne;
But lies in wait till Paris is in arms.
Call