_Bp. of St And._ What, like the eagle, then, With often flight wilt thou thy feathers lose? O king, canst thou endure to see thy court Of finest wits and judgments dispossess'd, Whilst cloaking craft with soothing climbs so high As each bewails ambition is so bad? Thy father left thee with estate and crown, A learnèd council to direct thy course: These carelessly, O king, thou castest off, To entertain a train of sycophants. Thou well may'st see, although thou wilt not see, That every eye and ear both sees and hears The certain signs of thine incontinence. Thou art allied unto the English king By marriage;--a happy friend indeed, If usèd well; if not, a mighty foe. Thinketh your grace, he can endure and brook To have a partner in his daughter's love? Thinketh your grace, the grudge of privy wrongs Will not procure him change his smiles to threats? O, be not blind to good! call home your lords, Displace these flattering Gnathoes, drive them hence! Love and with kindness take your wedlock wife; Or else, which God forbid, I fear a change: Sin cannot thrive in courts without a plague. _K. of Scots._ Go pack thou too, unless thou mend thy talk! On pain of death, proud bishop, get you gone, Unless you headless mean to hop away! _Bp. of St And._ Thou God of heaven, prevent my country's fall! [_Exit with other_ Nobles. _K. of Scots._ These stays and lets to pleasure plague my thoughts, Forcing my grievous wounds anew to bleed; But care that hath transported me so far, Fair Ida, is dispers'd in thought of thee, Whose answer yields me life or breeds my death. Yond comes the messenger of weal or woe. _Enter_ ATEUKIN.[268] Ateukin, what news? _Ateu._ The adamant, O king, will not be fil'd But by itself, and beauty that exceeds By some exceeding favour must be wrought: Ida is coy as yet, and doth repine, Objecting marriage, honour, fear and death: She's holy-wise, and too precise for me. _K. of Scots._ Are these thy fruits of wit, thy sight in art, Thine eloquence, thy policy, thy drift,-- To mock thy prince? Then, caitiff, pack thee hence, And let me die devourèd in my love! _Ateu._ Good lord, how rage gainsayeth reason's power! My dear, my gracious, and belovèd prince, The essence of my soul, my god on earth, Sit down and rest yourself: appease your wrath, Lest with a frown ye wound me to the death. O, that I were included in my grave, That either now, to save my prince's life, Must counsel cruelty, or lose my king! _K. of Scots._ Why, sirrah, is there means to move her mind? _Ateu._ O, should I not offend my royal liege,-- _K. of Scots._ Tell all, spare naught, so I may gain my love. _Ateu._ Alas, my soul, why art thou torn in twain, For fear thou talk a thing that should displease?