Meanwhile Lautrec proposes to his sister Françoise, the hand of his friend, the gallant Laval; whilst the fair maiden is importuned by Francis, who endeavours to make the poet Clement Marot the bearer of his intrigue. In a scene between Francis and the poet, the licentious impatience of the King, and the unsullied honour of Clement are finely contrasted. FRANCIS. I would I'd borne the scroll myself, thy words Image her forth so fair. CLEMENT. Do they, indeed? Then sorrow seize my tongue, for, look you, sir, I will not speak of your own fame or honour, Nor of your word to me: king's words, I find, Are drafts on our credulity, not pledges Of their own truth. You have been often pleas'd To shower your royal favours on my head; And fruitful honours from your kindly will Have rais'd me far beyond my fondest hopes; But had I known such service was to be The nearest way my gratitude might take To solve the debt, I'd e'en have given back All that I hold of you: and, now, not e'en Your crown and kingdom could requite to me The cutting sense of shame that I endur'd When on me fell the sad reproachful glance Which told me how I stood in the esteem Of yonder lady. Let me tell you, sir, You've borrow'd for a moment what whole years Cannot bestow--an honourable name. Now fare you well; I've sorrow at my heart, To think your majesty hath reckon'd thus Upon my nature. I was poor before, Therefore I can be poor again without Regret, so I lose not mine own esteem. * * * * * FRANCIS. Excellent. Oh, ye are precious wooers, all of ye. I marvel how ye ever ope your lips Unto, or look upon that fearful thing, A lovely woman. CLEMENT. And I marvel, sir, At those who do not feel the majesty,-- By heaven, I'd almost said the holiness,-- That circles round a fair and virtuous woman: There is a gentle purity that breathes In such a one, mingled with chaste respect, And modest pride of her own excellence,-- A shrinking nature, that is so adverse To aught unseemly, that I could as soon Forget the sacred love I owe to heav'n, As dare, with impure thoughts, to taint the air Inhal'd by such a being: than whom, my liege, Heaven cannot look on anything more holy, Or earth be proud of anything more fair. [_Exit_. Gonzales, the monk, is despatched by the Queen to Bourbon in prison. At the door he meets Margaret, who had bribed her way to her lover, and was returning after ineffectual attempts to soothe him into submission, shame-struck at the exposure of her mother's guilt. The Queen intrusts Gonzales with a signet ring as the means of liberating him and conducting him to the royal chamber. Bourbon is immovable; and in revenge upon the Court, he falls in with a private scheme of Gonzales, which is to accept of his liberty, and set off to the Court of Spain. The undisguising of the treacherous monk is in these powerful lines: GONZALES.