Mel. Thou hast me right:
Ten thousand devils more are in this habit;
Saintship and zeal are still our best disguise:
We mix unknown with the hot thoughtless crowd,
And quoting scriptures, (which too well we know,)
With impious glosses ban the holy text,
And make it speak rebellion, schism, and murder;
So turn the arms of heaven against itself.
Mal. What makes the curate of St. Eustace here?
Mel. Thou art mistaken, master; 'tis not he,
But 'tis a zealous, godly, canting devil,
Who has assumed the churchman's lucky shape,
To talk the crowd to madness and rebellion.
Mal. O true enthusiastic devil, true,—
(For lying is thy nature, even to me,)
Did'st thou not tell me, if my lord, the Guise,
Entered the court, his head should then lie low?
That was a lie; he went, and is returned.
Mel. 'Tis false; I said, perhaps it should lie low;
And, but I chilled the blood in Henry's veins,
And crammed a thousand ghastly, frightful thoughts,
Nay, thrust them foremost in his labouring brain,
Even so it would have been.
Mal. Thou hast deserved me,
And I am thine, dear devil: what do we next?
Mel. I said, first seize the king.
Mal. Suppose it done:
He's clapt within a convent, shorn a saint,
My master mounts the throne.
Mel. Not so fast, Malicorn;
Thy master mounts not, till the king be slain.
Mal. Not when deposed?