090 Gril. True, Abbot; but the mischief is, you churchmen
Can see that something further than the crowd;
These musket bullets have not read much logic,
Nor are they given to make your nice distinctions: [One enters, and gives the Queen a Note, she reads—
One of them possibly may hit the king
In some one part of him that's not divine;
And so that mortal part of his majesty would draw
the divinity of it into another world, sweet Abbot.
Qu. M. 'Tis equal madness to go out or stay;
The reverence due to kings is all transferred
To haughty Guise; and when new gods are made,
The old must quit the temple; you must fly.
King. Death! had I wings, yet would I scorn to fly.
Gril. Wings, or no wings, is not the question:
If you won't fly for't, you must ride for't,
And that comes much to one.
King. Forsake my regal town!
Qu. M. Forsake a bedlam;
This note informs me fifteen thousand men
Are marching to inclose the Louvre round.
Abb. The business then admits no more dispute,
You, madam, must be pleased to find the Guise;
Seem easy, fearful, yielding, what you will;
But still prolong the treaty all you can,
To gain the king more time for his escape.
Qu. M. I'll undertake it.—Nay, no thanks, my son.
My blessing shall be given in your deliverance;
That once performed, their web is all unravelled,
And Guise is to begin his work again.[Exit Q.M.
King. I go this minute.