Liv'd without envie; custome had benumb'd
All sense of scruple and all note of frailty;
My fame had beene untouch'd, my heart unbroken:
But (shunning all) I strike on all offence.
O husband! deare friend! O my conscience![185]
Mons. Come, let's away; my sences are not proofe
Against those plaints.
Exeunt Guise, Mon[sieur above]. D'Ambois is borne off.
Mont. I must not yeeld to pity, nor to love
So servile and so trayterous: cease, my bloud,