Mar. Did I not tell you, sir?
Gui. True; but in spite
114 Of those imperial arguments they urged,
I was not to be worked from second thought:
There we broke off; and mark me, if I live,
You are the saint that makes a convert of me.
Mar. Go then:—O heaven! Why must I still suspect you?
Why heaves my heart, and overflow my eyes?
Yet if you live, O Guise,—there, there's the cause,—
I never shall converse, nor see you more.
Gui. O say not so, for once again I'll see you.
Were you this very night to lodge with angels,
Yet say not never; for I hope by virtue
To merit heaven, and wed you late in glory.
Mar. This night, my lord, I'm a recluse for ever.
Gui. Ha! stay till morning: tapers are too dim;
Stay till the sun rises to salute you;
Stay till I lead you to that dismal den
Of virgins buried quick, and stay for ever.
Mar. Alas! your suit is vain, for I have vowed it:
Nor was there any other way to clear
The imputed stains of my suspected honour.
Gui. Hear me a word!—one sigh, one tear, at parting,
And one last look; for, O my earthly saint,
I see your face pale as the cherubins'
At Adam's fall.
Mar. O heaven! I now confess,
My heart bleeds for thee, Guise.
Gui. Why, madam, why?