University of Virginia Library

ACT I.

SCENE I.

The Duke of Guise, Cardinal of Lorraine, Marguerite.
Gui.
Just from your Arms, by this great Guardian rais'd,
Call'd to the Council of a wary King,
On whom depends the Fortune of Lorraine,
O, Marguerite, yet to drag at this,
After such full possession thus to languish:
If this be not to love thee, say what is!
Cease then the rolling Torrent of thy Tears,
Which when I strive to climb the Hill of Honour,
Washes my hold away, and drives me down
Beneath Man's Scorn, into the vale of Ruine.

Mar.
Hear, hear him, O you Powers, because I love him
Above my Life, beyond all joys on Earth,
He says I am his Ruine; to my Face,
With a Court Metaphor, he Vows he loaths me.
For all Men hate their Ruine; nay, 'tis true,
I find your Falshood; 'tis the trick of great ones,
Like Beasts of Strength, to prey upon the Weakest.

Gui.
I swear—

Mar.
O, do not, dear, Ambitious Guise;
For Perjury so necessary seems
To great Men's Oaths, thou must of course be damn'd:
Yet as I am, thus plung'd in this dishonour,
Like a fall'n Angel roll'd through all my Hells,
I cannot hate thee, Guise, but sighing far,
Far from the shining Clime where I was born,
I beg those cruel Fates that hurl'd me down
To pity thee, and keep thee from my ruine:
For I'm so curs'd, that I do not wish my Foe,
Much less the Man I love above the World.

Gui.
As I love thee, and O be Witnesses
My Brain and Soul, there's not an Artery
That runs through all the Body of thy Guise,
But beats where e're it pass Marguerite;
Yet this is nothing: haste away, my Lord;
Go tell the King and Council I am sick;
For I'le to Bed again, or on a Couch
Sit gazing in her beauteous Eyes all day,
And let the business of a grave World pass.

Mar.
No more, my Lord; you shall, you shall to Council:
I see 'tis necessary; but I find
My Soul presages Mischief, if not Murder;
For if you should prove false, Crowns, Kingdoms, Empires,
Worlds should not save poor Marguerite from the Grave.
Ah, Guise, ah venerable Lorrain, view me,
Behold me on the Earth, I swear I love
As never Woman lov'd; I'm all a Brand,
With, or without you, I am ne're at rest:
Farewel; this Fever of my furious passion
Burns me to Madness, yet I say, farewel.

Gui.
Farewel. Yet why farewel, when e're the Evening
I shall again rush to eternal Sweets,
This bosom of the Spring!
[Marguerite going out.]
[Mar. returning.]
What, no endearments at so sad a parting!
Alas, perhaps I ne're shall see you more.
You bow'd, you kiss'd, but did not press my hand;
You shou'd, like me, have stagger'd when you left me,
And eat your Marguerite with your hungry Eyes;
But you are cold and pall'd, a lukewarm Lover,
Must to the business of the cursed State,
Which will not let you think of dying Marguerite,
Who to her last gasp will remember you.
But see, I rave again, my Fits return:
Yet pity me, for oh, I burn, I burn.

[Exit.
Car.
I think I never heard so fierce a Passion:
She's all Convulsion, and she gazes on you,
As you would do on him that kill'd your Father.
What have you done, my Lord, to make her thus?

Gui.
Causes are endless for a Woman's loving.
Perhaps she has seen me break a Lance on Horse-back,
Or, as my Custom is, all over Arm'd,
Plunge in the Seine or Loire; and where 'tis swiftest
Plow too my point against the headlong Stream.
Tis certain, were my Soul of that soft make
Which some believe, she has Charms, my Heav'nly Uncle,
Beyond the Art and Wit of Cleopatra:
Such was not she stretch'd in her Golden Barge,
As Marguerite was last Night in Bed,
Who, as she mourn'd at my unkind delay,
Hung all the Chambers round with Black; her Bed,
Her Coverings, nay, her Sarsnet Sheets were Black—

Car.
Fy, fy, my Lord.

Gui.
And for the Weathers heat
Were roll'd beneath the beauties of her Breasts,
Which with a White, more pure than new-fall'n Snow,
Would sure have tempted Hermits from their Orgies,
To nod and smile a little at the wonder.

Car.
Come, come, my Lord, you anger me indeed,
Not for the Sin, that's as the Conscience makes it;
I had rather you should Whore a thousand Women,
Than love but one, thô in a lawful way:
Shew me through all Memorials of Great Men,
Except the Partner of the Roman Empire,
Drooping Antonius, and the fam'd Decemvir,
One that e're bow'd before this little Idol!

Gui.
First know your Man, before your Application:
I love, 'tis true; but most for my Ambition;
Therefore I thought to marry Marguerite;
But, oh, that Cassiopeia in the Chair,
The Regent Mother, and that Dog Anjou;
Cross Constellations blast my Plots e're born:
The King too frowns upon me; for last night,
Hearing a Ball was promis'd by the Queen,
I came to help the Show; when at the Door
The King, who stood himself the Centry, stopt me,
And ask'd me what I came for? I reply'd,
To serve his Majesty: He, sharp and short,
Retorted thus; He did not need my Service.

Car.
'Tis plain, you must resolve, my Lord, to quit her;
For I am charg'd to tell you, she's design'd
To be the Wife of Henry of Navarre.
'Tis the main Beam in all that Mighty Engin
Which now begins to move so dreadfully
Against the Heads of the Rebellious Faction.

Gui.
I have it, and methinks it looks like D'Alva,
I see the very motion of his Beard,
His opening Nostrils, and his dropping Lids;
I hear him Croak too, to the King and Queen,
In Biscays Bay, at Bayonne,
Fish for the Great fish; take no care for Frogs:
Cut off the Poppy-heads: lay the Winds fast,
And streight the Waves (the People) will be still.

Car.
Then you will leave her!

Gui.
Hurl her to the Sea!
The Air, the Earth, or Elemental fire,
So I may see Chastilion in the Net.
Oh that Whale-Admiral: might I but view him,
After his thousand Fetches, Plots, and Plunges,
Struck on those Scouring Shallows which await him,
Furies and Hell, and I, stand by to gall him;
Were Marguerite all one World of Pleasure,
I'de sell her, and my Soul, for such Revenge.

Car.
Speak lower.

Gui.
What, upon my Father's Death!
O glorious Guise, be calm upon thy Murder!
No; I will hollow my Revenge so loud,
That his great Ghost shall hear me up to Heav'n.
In height of Honours, oh, to fall so basely,
When Orleance was blockt up, and Conquest Crown'd thee,
By damn'd Poltrot so villainously slain,
Poltrot, by Beza, and this curs'd Admiral,
Set on with hopes of Infinite Rewards
Here and hereafter, so to blast thy Glory!
O, I could pull my bursting Eye-balls forth,
But that they may one day prove Basilisks
To that detested Head of all these Broils,
Then Tortures, Racks and Death shall close thy wound,
Kill him in Riots, Pride, and Lust of Pleasures,
That I may add Damnation to the rest,
And foil his Soul and Body both together.

Car.
Behold your Brother, and the Duke Delbeuf,
Mercour too comes; this outrage will undo us.

Gui.
No, not at all; for 'tis in general terms.
O my good Lords, what if the Admiral
Stood here before you; should he scape our Justice?
I see by each man's laying of his hand
Upon his Sword, you vow the like Revenge:
For me, I wish that both mine may rot off.—

Car.
No more; away, my Lords: the King calls for you.

Gui.
I go. That Vermin may devour my limbs,
That I may dy like the late puling King
Under the Barber's hands, Imposthumes choak me,
If while alive I cease to chew his ruin,
To hang him in Effigie, nay to tread,
Drag, stamp, and grind him, after he is dead.

[Exeunt.

SCENE II.

The Cabinet Council.
Table with Lights on it. [A Chamber beyond it.]
Queen Mother, Anjou asleep.
Q. M.
O my Anjou, the Wheels of this New Ruin
Go wrong, for want of one that knows to drive;
He sits too light upon the whirling Throne,
And totters, with the dismal prospect, down:
Young Charles, a smart suspicious doubtful Boy,
But, Charles, you must be rul'd in this dark Road,
Or with the Lightning of my Fatal Power,
Which never cracks nor claps, I'le melt thee down,
For ever lost amongst the Mass of Things,
That thou, the Darling of my doating Soul,
The Price of my Eternal thought, may'st mount
Like Nero, tho' at Agrippina's Ruin.
But see the King with the new Count of Rhetz:
Let us withdraw; it may be worth our hearing.

Enter King with Alberto Gondi.
King.
Alberto Gondi.

Alb.
Sir!

King.
I think thou lov'st me.

Alb.
More than my life.

King.
That's much; yet I believe thee.
My Mother has the Judgment of the World,
And all things move by that; but my Alberto,
She has cruel Wit, and, let me tell thee,
Thus to destroy the Souldiers of the Kingdom;
Famous as ever fought for Rome or Greece,
Under a shadow of a thousand Oaths;
'Tis Barbarous, Alberto, is it not?
And seems to me unworthy of a King.

Alb.
The Provocation, Sir.

King.
I know it well.
But if thoud'st have my heart within thy hand,
I swear, Conspiracies of that foul Nature
For ever blot the Memory of Kings.
What Honours, Interest, with the World to buy him,
Shall make a brave Man smile and do a Murder?
Therefore I hate the Treachery of Brutus,
I mean the latter so cry'd up in Story:
Whom none but Cowards and White-Liver'd-Knaves
Would dare commend, lagging behind his Fellows,
His Dagger in his—Stab'd his Father.
This is a Blot, the Ciceronian Stile
Could ne're wipe off, tho' the Man
(Mistaken in his Love, for Brutus scorn'd him)
Makes bold to call those Traytors Men Divine.

Alb.
Tully was Wise, but wanted Constancy.

King.
He did, Alberto. Heark, but one thing more,
For much I love thee, and would fain unburden
My Soul of half her Cares on such a Man,
So good.

Alb.
My ever Dear and Honour'd Master.

King.
No more of that. I'le tell thee then: last night,
As I lay tossing in a Feverish Dream,
I call'd for Drink; when streight my Mother brought it;
But as she reach'd it to my trembling Lips,
Methought her Eyes roll'd gastly upon me,
A Palsey shook her hand; yet I resolv'd,
Took off the Draught, when streight a fainting seiz'd me,
My Eyes wept Blood, my Ears, my Nose and Mouth
Pour'd forth whole Streams, and all my Sweat was Blood,
My Hair and Nails dropt off as Autumn Leaves,
When Tempests rise, fall from the wither'd Trees:
But, oh, the Fancy seems so much unnatural,
I'll think no more on't; yet I thought to tell thee,
Because she is a Woman whom no Art
Nor Wisdom of the World can ever fathom.

Alb.
O my Gracious Lord,
Judge not the Queen by Dreams, and vain Chimæra's;
Remember, Sir, how often in your Nonage
She manag'd with her Wit the weight of Empire,
Contending with th'Effects of blind Religion,
The Contumacy of Rebellious Subjects,
The deep dissimulation of the Court,
The want of Treasure, baffling with her Prudence
The utmost strength Ambition rais'd to gain her.

King.
O Count of Rhetz, thou lead'st me through the Garden
Of every Grace, but darest not point her Weeds:
Is she not of a most deceitful Soul;
Perfidious even to violating Vows?
Is she not greedy too of Human Blood?
A Wit wasteful in destroying Lives,
That she will turn a City to a Wild?

Qu. M.
Good Morrow, Sir! 'Tis just the time you order'd,
I think the second Watch; and we are met
To wait on your Decrees.

King.
O Mother, Mother,
You have imbark'd me in a Sea of Blood;
And sure so damnable an Enterprise
Was never form'd by Man.

Qu. M.
If, Sir, you fear it,
Why give it o're, and let the Admiral Reign,
Call in the Hugonots, and drive your Friends,
Banish your Blood, and the Establish'd Peers,
Forget the long Succession of your Fathers,
The Throne of Kings, forget the Laws, Religion,
Cut off the Noble Spirits from your Council;
And from the Dregs of this Heretical Faction
Compose a Bastard Cabinet-Election,
Let Knaves in Shops prescribe you how to Sway,
They read your Acts, with hardned thumbs
'Em out, or with their stinking Breath
Proclaim aloud they like not this or that;
Then in a drove come lowing to the Louvre,
And say, they'l have it mended, that they will,
Or you shall be no King.

King.
'Tis true the People
Ne're know a Mean when once they get the Power.

Qu. M.
Did you not late dispatch by Lodowick
Thus to the Admiral, with Vows of Honour,
That young Navarre should streight Espouse your Sister,
So to root up all Seeds of least Suspicion;
And that those Nuptials should be solemniz'd
At Paris, to be bound with deepest Oaths?

King.
Yet, Madam, I must fear; for, should it fail,
We should be less than our worst Foes could wish us,
The Poultron Court, the Scorn, the laughing Stock
Of all the Christian and the Barbarous World.

Qu. M.
No, Sir, you cannot fear the sure Design,
But you're in fear of those that are about you:
You fear ev'n Me; but I have liv'd too long,
Since my own Bowels, nay, my very Heart-Strings,
(For so I alwaies lov'd and priz'd my Children)
Dare not confide in her that gave 'em Being.

King.
Stay, Madam, stay, come back, forgive my fears,
Forgive my sifting Soul her narrow Searches,
Where all our Thoughts should creep like deepest Streams;
For know, I hate the Haughty Admiral,
And all his curst Accomplices to Death.

Qu. M.
What brings the Cardinal of Lorrain from Rome?

King.
That the new Pope is fully satisfy'd;
I sent the Legate too that Diamond Ring,
With this close Motto writ within the Gold:
By this, my solid Zeal I own;
And Blood can never melt it down.

Anj.
A murd'ring Sentence for the Hugonots.

King.
And which so clear'd the matter, that the Pope
Order'd a Dispensation for the Marriage.

Qu. M.
Behold the Duke of Guise, and Cardinal:
'Twere fit you send his Eminence to Rochel,
T'acquaint the Admiral of a War with Spain,
And that the Plot we form'd for the Low-Countries
Against the Catholick King, should streight be acted.

King.
O Mother, oh, what's this that rends my heart,
That rides my Nights, and clouds my Days with horror?
Is it not Conscience? which sometimes appears
Like a She Wolf, in Jane of Albert's Shape,
And drags me on the Floor; now in the form
Of that old Lyon Admiral, it comes,
And grins, and roars, just gaping to devour me.

Qu. M.
Why, let him: when his Throat is cut we'll trust him:
Clear up this furrow'd Brow. Believe me, Sir,
You'l see him shortly where you need not fear him;
For, should he stay behind the Queen and Princess,
Doubting the Marriage, fill'd with boding fears,
The War with Spain will so bewitch his Glory,
And lull his proud Ambition, that should Fate,
Which awes him now, leap up more terrible,
He'll follow with a speed shall make him foremost,
And scorn a Grave.

King.
O, tis a dreadful Image;
Yet when his brains are pash'd I shall be still,
The Morning rises, yet I cannot rest;
Like those eternal Lamps that wink above;
Methinks, O Mother, I could watch for ever.
Once more let me conjure you, all be hush'd,
Be secret on this horrid Consultation,
As Urns and Monuments, that never blab.

Gui.
Therefore let's lye like Furies on the watch,
As if it were an ambush for the World.

King.
With Claws lock'd in, like Lions, couch to tear 'em,
Our Mother, thou so fierce upon the slaughter,
Direct thy Brood; we will not stir nor breath:
But when thou giv'st the Word, then start away,
Rush from the Shade, and make 'em all our prey.

[Exeunt.