King. 'Tis true, the people
Ne'er know a mean, when once they get the power;
But O, if the design we lay should fail,
Better the traitors never should be touched,
If execution cries not out—'Tis done.
Qu. M. No, sir, you cannot fear the sure design:
But I have lived too long, since my own blood
Dares not confide in her that gave him being.
King. Stay, madam, stay; come back, forgive my fears,
Where all our thoughts should creep like deepest streams:
Know, then, I hate aspiring Guise to death;
Whored Margarita,—plots upon my life,—
And shall I not revenge?[7]
Qu. M. Why, this is Harry;
Harry at Moncontour, when in his bloom
He saw the admiral Coligny's back.[8]
King. O this whale Guise, with all the Lorrain fry!
Might I but view him, after his plots and plunges,
Struck on those cowring shallows that await him,—
This were a Florence master-piece indeed.
Qu. M. He comes to take his leave.
King. Then for Champaigne;
041 But lies in wait till Paris is in arms.
Call Grillon in. All that I beg you now,
Is to be hushed upon the consultation,
As urns, that never blab.
Qu. M. Doubt not your friends;
Love them, and then you need not fear your foes.
Enter Grillon.
King. Welcome, my honest man, my old tried friend.
Why dost thou fly me, Grillon, and retire?