That 'tis high time You thought about these things! The Cardinal-Duke Has more than one disastrous scheme afoot. He drinks the best blood of your subjects, sire! Your father, Henry IV., of royal heart, Would not have sacrificed his nobles thus! He never struck them down without dire need! Well served by them, he sought to guard them well. He knew good soldiers had more use in them Than trunkless heads. He knew their worth in war, This soldier-king whose doublet smelled of battle! Great days were those. I shared, I honor them! A few of the old race are living yet. Never could priest have touched one of those lords. There was no selling of a great head cheap! Sire, in these treacherous days to which we've come, Trust an old man, keep a few nobles by. Perhaps, in your turn, you will need their help. The time may come when you will groan to think Of all the honors lavished on La Grève! Then, sadly, your regretful eyes will seek Those lords indomitably brave and true, Who, dead so long, had still been young to-day. The country's heart yet pants with civil war; The tocsin of past years re-echoes yet, Be saving of the executioner's arm! He is the one should sheathe his sword, not we! Be miserly with scaffolds, O my sire! 'Twill be a woful thing some later day To mourn this great man's help, who hangs to-day A whitening skeleton on gallows-tree! For blood, my king, is no good, wholesome dew. You'll reap no crops from irrigated Grève! The people will avoid the sight of kings. That flattering voice which tells you all is well, Tells you you're son of Henry IV., and Bourbon-- That voice, my sire, however high it soars, Can never drown the thud of falling heads! Take my advice: play not this costly game. You, King, are bound to look God in the face, Hark to the words of fate, ere it rebels! War is a nobler thing than massacre! 'Tis not a prosperous nor joyful State When headsmen have more work than soldiers have! He for our country is a pastor hard, Who dares collect his tithes in slaughtered heads! Look! this proud lord of inhumanity Who holds your scepter has blood-covered hands! THE KING. The Cardinal's my friend! Who loves me must Love him! MARQUIS DE NANGIS. Sire! THE KING. Silence! He's my second self. MARQUIS DE NANGIS. Sire! THE KING. Bring no more such griefs to trouble me! [_Showing his hair, which is beginning to turn gray._ Petitioners like you make these gray hairs! MARQUIS DE NANGIS. An old man, sire; a woman, sire, who weeps! A word from you is life or death for us! THE KING. What do you ask? MARQUIS DE NANGIS. Pardon for my Gaspard! MARION. Pardon for Didier! THE KING. Pardons of a king Are often thefts from justice! MARION.