_Maf._ Your Grace must pardon me, that I am bold To urge the cleare and full sence of your pleasure; 350 Which when so ever I have knowne, I hope Your Grace will say I hit it to a haire. _Mons._ You have. _Maf._ I hope so, or I would be glad-- _Mons._ I pray thee, get thee gone; thou art so tedious In the strick't forme of all thy services 355 That I had better have one negligent. You hit my pleasure well, when D'Ambois hit you; Did you not, think you? _Maf._ D'Ambois! why, my lord-- _Mons._ I pray thee, talk no more, but shut the dores: Doe what I charge thee. _Maf._ I will my lord, and yet 360 I would be glad the wrong I had of D'Ambois-- _Mons._ Precious! then it is a fate that plagues me In this mans foolery; I may be murthered, While he stands on protection of his folly. Avant, about thy charge! _Maf._ I goe, my lord.-- 365 I had my head broke in his faithfull service; I had no suit the more, nor any thanks, And yet my teeth must still be hit with D'Ambois. D'Ambois, my lord, shall know-- _Mons._ The devill and D'Ambois! _Exit Maffe._ How am I tortur'd with this trusty foole! 370 Never was any curious in his place To doe things justly, but he was an asse: We cannot finde one trusty that is witty, And therefore beare their disproportion. Grant, thou great starre, and angell of my life, 375 A sure lease of it but for some few dayes, That I may cleare my bosome of the snake I cherisht there, and I will then defie All check to it but Natures; and her altars Shall crack with vessels crown'd with ev'ry liquor 380 Drawn from her highest and most bloudy humors. I feare him strangely; his advanced valour Is like a spirit rais'd without a circle, Endangering him that ignorantly rais'd him, And for whose fury he hath learnt no limit. 385 _Enter Maffe hastily._ _Maf._ I cannot help it; what should I do more? As I was gathering a fit guard to make My passage to the dores, and the dores sure, The man of bloud is enter'd. _Mons._ Rage of death! If I had told the secret, and he knew it, 390 Thus had I bin endanger'd. _Enter D'Ambois._ My sweet heart! How now? what leap'st thou at? _Bussy._ O royall object! _Mons._ Thou dream'st awake: object in th'empty aire! _Buss._ Worthy the browes of Titan, worth his chaire. _Mons._ Pray thee, what mean'st thou? _Buss._ See you not a crowne 395 Empalethe forehead of the great King Monsieur? _Mons._ O, fie upon thee!