King. 'Tis searching there where heaven can only pry,
Not man, who knows not man but by surmise;
Nor devils, nor angels of a purer mould,
Can trace the winding labyrinths of thought.
I tell thee, Marmoutiere, I never speak,
Not when alone, for fear some fiend should hear,
And blab my secrets out.
Mar. You hate the Guise.
King. True, I did hate him.
Mar. And you hate him still.
King. I am reconciled.
Mar. Your spirit is too high,
Great souls forgive not injuries, till time
Has put their enemies into their power,
That they may shew, forgiveness is their own;
For else, 'tis fear to punish, that forgives;
The coward, not the king.
King. He has submitted.
Mar. In show; for in effect he still insults.
King. Well, kings must bear sometimes.
Mar. They must, till they can shake their burden off;
And that's, I think, your aim.