The Works of Christopher Marlowe Volume II Part 61

_Dum._ But what doth move thee, above the rest, to do the deed?

_Fri._ O my lord, I have been a great sinner in my days!

and the deed is meritorious.

_Dum._ But how wilt thou get opportunity? 30

_Fri._ Tush, my lord, let me alone for that.

_Dum._ Friar, come with me; We will go talk more of this within.

[_Exeunt._

SCENE XXIV.

_Drums and Trumpets. Enter_[426] KING HENRY, _the_ KING OF NAVARRE, EPERNOUN, BARTUS, PLESHe, Soldiers, _and_ Attendants.

_Henry._ Brother of Navarre, I sorrow much That ever I was prov'd your enemy, And that the sweet and princely mind you bear Was ever troubled with injurious wars.

I vow, as I am lawful king of France, To recompense your reconciled love, With all the honours and affections That ever I vouchsaf'd my dearest friends.

_Nav._ It is enough if that Navarre may be Esteemed faithful to the king of France, 10 Whose service he may still command till death.

_Henry._ Thanks to my kingly brother of Navarre.

Then here we'll lie before Lutetia-walls,[427]

Girting this strumpet city with our siege, Till, surfeiting with our afflicting arms, She cast her hateful stomach to the earth.

_Enter a_ Messenger.

_Mes._ An it please your majesty, here is a friar of the order of the Jacobins, sent from the President of Paris, that craves access unto your grace.

_Henry._ Let him come in. [_Exit_ Mess. 20

_Enter_ Friar, _with a letter._

_Eper._ I like not this friar's look: 'Twere not amiss, my lord, if he were search'd.

_Henry._ Sweet Epernoun, our friars are holy men.

And will not offer violence to their king For all the wealth and treasure of the world.-- Friar, thou dost acknowledge me thy king?

_Fri._ I, my good lord, and will die therein.

_Henry._ Then come thou near, and tell what news thou bring'st.

_Fri._ My lord, The President of Paris greets your grace, 30 And sends his duty by these speedy lines, Humbly craving your gracious reply. [_Gives letter._

_Henry._ I'll read them, friar, and then I'll answer thee.

_Fri._ _Sancte Jacobe_,[428] now have mercy upon me!

[_Stabs the king with a knife, as he reads the letter; and then the king gets the knife, and kills him._

_Eper._ O my lord, let him live a while!

_Henry._ No, let the villain die, and feel in h.e.l.l Just torments for his treachery.

_Nav._ What, is your highness hurt?

_Henry._ Yes, Navarre; but not to death, I hope.

_Nav._ G.o.d s.h.i.+eld your grace from such a sudden death!-- 40 Go call a surgeon hither straight. [_Exit an_ Attendant.

_Henry._ What irreligious pagans' parts be these, Of such as hold them of the holy church!

Take hence that d.a.m.ned villain from my sight.

[Attendants _carry out the_ Friar's _body._ _Eper._ Ah, had your highness let him live, We might have punish'd him to his deserts!

_Henry._ Sweet Epernoun, all rebels under heaven Shall take example by his[429] punishment, How they bear arms against their sovereign.-- Go call the English agent hither straight: 50 [_Exit an_ Attendant.

I'll send my sister England news of this, And give her warning of her treacherous foes.

_Enter a_ Surgeon.

_Nav._ Pleaseth your grace to let the surgeon search your wound?

_Henry._ The wound, I warrant ye, is deep, my lord.-- Search, surgeon, and resolve me what thou see'st.

[_The_ Surgeon _searches the wound._

_Enter the_ English Agent.

Agent for England, send thy mistress word What this detested Jacobin hath done.

Tell her, for all this, that I hope to live; Which if I do, the papal monarch goes To wreck, and antichristian kingdom falls: 60 These b.l.o.o.d.y hands shall tear his triple crown, And fire accursed Rome about his ears; I'll fire his crazed buildings, and enforce The papal towers to kiss the lowly[430] earth.

Navarre, give me thy hand: I here do swear To ruinate that wicked Church of Rome, That hatcheth up such b.l.o.o.d.y practices; And here protest eternal love to thee, And to the Queen of England specially, Whom G.o.d hath bless'd for hating papistry. 70

_Nav._ These words revive my thoughts, and comfort me, To see your highness in this virtuous mind.

_Henry._ Tell me, surgeon, shall I live?

_Surg._ Alas, my lord, the wound is dangerous, For you are stricken with a poison'd knife!

_Henry._ A poison'd knife! what, shall the French king die, Wounded and poison'd both at once?

_Eper._ O, that That d.a.m.ned villain were alive again, 79 That we might torture him with some new-found death!

_Bar._ He died a death too good: The devil of h.e.l.l torture his wicked soul!

_Henry._ Ah, curse him not, sith he is dead!-- O, the fatal poison works within my breast!-- Tell me, surgeon, and flatter not--may I live?

_Surg._ Alas, my lord, your highness cannot live!

_Nav._ Surgeon, why say'st thou so? the king may live.

_Henry._ O no, Navarre! thou must be king of France.