I know 'tis farre from her intent to send:[80]
And who she should send is as farre from thought,
Since he is dead whose only mean she us'd. Knocks.
Whose there? Look to the dore, and let him in,
Though politick Monsieur, or the violent Guise.
Enter Montsurry like the Frier, with a letter written in bloud.
Mont. Haile to my worthy sonne!
Buss. O lying Spirit, [85]
To say the Frier was dead! Ile now beleeve
Nothing of all his forg'd predictions.