That shewes me not a murtherer: what such bugge
Abhorreth not the very sleepe of D'Amboys?
Murther'd! Who dares give all the room I see
To D'Ambois reach? or look with any odds[30]
His fight i'th' face, upon whose hand sits death,
Whose sword hath wings, and every feather pierceth?
If I scape Monsieurs pothecarie shops,
Foutir for Guises shambles! 'Twas ill plotted;
They should have mall'd me here35
When I was rising. I am up and ready.