Mar. Because by this disorder,
And that sad fate that bodes upon your brow,
I do believe you love me more than glory.
Gui. Without an oath I do; therefore have mercy,
And think not death could make me tremble thus;
Be pitiful to those infirmities
Which thus unman me; stay till the council's over;
If you are pleased to grant an hour or two
115 To my last prayer, I'll thank you as my saint:
If you refuse me, madam, I'll not murmur.
Mar. Alas, my Guise!—O heaven, what did I say?
But take it, take it; if it be too kind,
Honour may pardon it, since 'tis my last.
Gui. O let me crawl, vile as I am, and kiss
Your sacred robe.—Is't possible! your hand! [She gives him her hand.
O that it were my last expiring moment,
For I shall never taste the like again.
Mar. Farewell, my proselyte! your better genius
Watch your ambition.
Gui. I have none but you:
Must I ne'er see you more?
Mar. I have sworn you must not:
Which thought thus roots me here, melts my resolves,[Weeps.
And makes me loiter when the angels call me.
Gui. O ye celestial dews! O paradise!
O heaven! O joys, ne'er to be tasted more!
Mar. Nay, take a little more: cold Marmoutiere,
The temperate, devoted Marmoutiere
Is gone,—a last embrace I must bequeath you.
Gui. And O let me return it with another!