Massacre at Paris Part 7

Sound trumpets.

KING. Thanks to you al. The guider of all crownes, Graunt that our deeds may wel deserve your loves: And so they shall, if fortune speed my will, And yeeld our thoughts to height of my desertes.

What say our Minions, think they Henries heart Will not both harbour love and Majestie?

Put of that feare, they are already joynde, No person, place, or time, or circ.u.mstance, Shall slacke my loves affection from his bent.

As now you are, so shall you still persist, Remooveles from the favours of your King.

MUGEROUN. We know that n.o.ble minces change not their thoughts For wearing of a crowne: in that your grace, Hath worne the Poland diadem, before You were withvested in the crowne of France.

KING. I tell thee Mugeroun we will be freends, And fellowes to, what ever stormes arise.

MUGEROUN. Then may it please your Majestie to give me leave, To punish those that doe prophane this holy feast.

He cuts of the Cutpurse eare, for cutting of the golde b.u.t.tons off his cloake.

KING. How meanst thou that?

CUTPURSE. O Lord, mine eare.

MUGEROUN. Come sir, give me my b.u.t.tons and heers your eare.

GUISE. Sirra, take him away.

KING. Hands of good fellow, I will be his baile For this offence: goe sirra, worke no more, Till this our Coronation day be past: And now, Our rites of Coronation done, What now remaines, but for a while to feast, And spend some daies in barriers, tourny, tylte, And like disportes, such as doe fit the Coutr?

Lets goe my Lords, our dinner staies for us.

Goe out all, but the Queene [Mother] and the Cardinall.

QUEENE MOTHER. My Lord Cardinall of Loraine, tell me, How likes your grace my sonnes pleasantnes?

His mince you see runnes on his minions, And all his heaven is to delight himselfe: And whilste he sleepes securely thus in ease, Thy brother Guise and we may now provide, To plant our selves with such authoritie, That not a man may live without our leaves.

Then shall the Catholick faith of Rome, Flourish in France, and none deny the same.

Cardinall Madam, as I in secresy was tolde, My brother Guise hath gathered a power of men, Which are he saith, to kill the Puritans, But tis the house of Burbon that he meanest Now Madam must you insinuate with the King, And tell him that tis for his Countries good, And common profit of Religion.

QUEENE MOTHER. Tush man, let me alone with him, To work the way to bring this thing to pa.s.se: And if he doe deny what I doe say, Ile dispatch him with his brother presently.

And then shall Mounser weare the diadem.

Tush, all shall dye unles I have my will: For while she lives Katherine will be Queene.

Come my Lord, let us goe to seek the Guise, And then determine of this enterprise.

Exeunt.

[Scene xiii]

Enter the d.u.c.h.esse of Guise, and her Maide.

d.u.c.h.eSSE. Goe fetch me pen and inke.

MAID. I will Madam.

Exit Maid.

d.u.c.h.eSSE. That I may write unto my dearest Lord.

Sweet Mugeroune, tis he that hath my heart, And Guise usurpes it, cause I am his wife: Faine would I finde some means to speak with him But cannot, and therfore am enforst to write, That he may come and meet me in some place, Where we may one injoy the others sight.

Enter the Maid with Inke and Paper.

So, set it down and leave me to my selfe.

O would to G.o.d this quill that heere doth write,

She writes.

Had late been plucks from out faire Cupids wing: That it might print these lines within his heart.

Enter the Guise.

GUISE. What, all alone my love, and writing too: I prethee say to whome thou writes?

d.u.c.h.eSSE. To such a one, as when she reads my lines, Will laugh I feare me at their good aray.

GUISE. I pray thee let me see.

d.u.c.h.eSSE. O no my Lord, a woman only must Partake the secrets of my heart.

GUISE. But Madam I must see.

He takes it.

Are these your secrets that no man must know?

d.u.c.h.eSSE. O pardon me my Lord.

GUISE. Thou trothles and unjust, what lines are these?

Am I growne olde, or is thy l.u.s.t growne yong, Or hath my love been so obscurde in thee, That others need to comment on my text?

Is all my love forgot which helde thee deare?

I, dearer then the apple of mine eye?

Is Guises glory but a clowdy mist, In sight and judgement of thy l.u.s.tfull eye?

Mor du, were not the fruit within thy wombe, On whose encrease I set some longing hope: This wrathfull hand should strike thee to the hart Hence strumpet, hide thy head for shame, And fly my presence if thou look'st to live.

Exit [d.u.c.h.esse].

O wicked s.e.xe, perjured and unjust, Now doe I see that from the very first, Her eyes and lookes sow'd seeds of perjury, But villaine he to whom these lines should goe, Shall buy her love even with his dearest bloud.

Exit.