King. I know it well;
But,—if thou'dst have my heart within thy hand,—
All conjurations blot the name of kings.
What honours, interest, were the world to buy him,
Shall make a brave man smile, and do a murder?
Therefore I hate the memory of Brutus,
I mean the latter, so cried up in story.
Cæsar did ill, but did it in the sun,
And foremost in the field; but sneaking Brutus,
Whom none but cowards and white-livered knaves
Would dare commend, lagging behind his fellows,
His dagger in his bosom, stabbed his father.
This is a blot, which Tully's eloquence
Could ne'er wipe off, though the mistaken man
Makes bold to call those traitors,—men divine.
Alph. Tully was wise, but wanted constancy.
Enter Queen Mother, and Abbot Delbene.
Qu. M. Good-even, sir; 'tis just the time you ordered
To wait on your decrees.
King. Oh, madam!
Qu. M. Sir?
King. Oh mother,—but I cannot make it way;—
Chaos and shades,—'tis huddled up in night.
Qu. M. Speak then, for speech is morning to the mind;
It spreads the beauteous images abroad,
Which else lie furled and clouded in the soul.
King. You would embark me in a sea of blood.
Qu. M. You see the plot directly on your person;
But give it o'er, I did but state the case.
Take Guise into your heart, and drive your friends;
040 Let knaves in shops prescribe you how to sway,
And, when they read your acts with their vile breath,
Proclaim aloud, they like not this or that;
Then in a drove come lowing to the Louvre,
And cry,—they'll have it mended, that they will,
Or you shall be no king.