_Fri._ From the last nights black depth I call'd up one 80 Of the inferiour ablest ministers, And he could not resolve mee. Send one, then, Out of thine owne command to fetch the paper That Monsieur hath to shew to Count Montsurry. _Beh._ I will. Cartophylax! thou that properly 85 Hast in thy power all papers so inscrib'd, Glide through all barres to it, and fetch that paper. _Cartophylax._ I will. _A torch removes._ _Fri._ Till he returnes (great prince of darknesse) Tell me if Monsieur and the Count Montsurry 90 Are yet encounter'd. _Beh._ Both them and the Guise Are now together. _Fri._ Show us all their persons, And represent the place, with all their actions. _Beh._ The spirit will strait return, and then Ile shew thee. See, he is come. Why brought'st thou not the paper? 95 _Car._ He hath prevented me, and got a spirit Rais'd by another, great in our command, To take the guard of it before I came. _Beh._ This is your slacknesse, not t'invoke our powers When first your acts set forth to their effects. 100 Yet shall you see it and themselves. Behold They come here, & the Earle now holds the paper. _Ent[er] Mons[ieur], Gui[se], Mont[surry], with a paper._ _Buss._ May we not heare them? [_Fri._] No, be still and see. _Buss._ I will goe fetch the paper. _Fri._ Doe not stirre. There's too much distance, and too many locks 105 Twixt you and them (how neere so e're they seeme) For any man to interrupt their secrets. _Tam._ O honour'd spirit, flie into the fancie Of my offended lord; and doe not let him Beleeve what there the wicked man hath written. 110 _Beh._ Perswasion hath already enter'd him Beyond reflection; peace, till their departure! * * * * * _Monsieur._ There is a glasse of ink where you may see How to make ready black fac'd tragedy: You now discerne, I hope, through all her paintings, 115 Her gasping wrinkles and fames sepulchres. _Guise._ Think you he faines, my lord? what hold you now? Doe we maligne your wife, or honour you? _Mons._ What, stricken dumb! Nay fie, lord, be not danted: Your case is common; were it ne're so rare, 120 Beare it as rarely! Now to laugh were manly. A worthy man should imitate the weather, That sings in tempests, and being cleare, is silent. _Gui._ Goe home, my lord, and force your wife to write Such loving lines to D'Ambois as she us'd 125 When she desir'd his presence.