Blinds Europe's eyes, and troubleth our estate. Him will we--[_Pointing to his sword_] but first let's follow those in France That hinder our possession to the crown. As Cæsar to his soldiers, so say I,-- Those that hate me will I learn to loathe. Give me a look, that, when I bend the brows, Pale death may walk in furrows of my face; A hand, that with a grasp may gripe the world; 100 An ear to hear what my detractors say; A royal seat, a sceptre, and a crown; That those which do behold, they[356] may become As men that stand and gaze against the sun. The plot is laid, and things shall come to pass Where resolution strives for victory. [_Exit._ SCENE III. _Enter the_ KING OF NAVARRE,[357] QUEEN MARGARET, _the_ OLD QUEEN OF NAVARRE, _the_ PRINCE OF CONDÉ, _and the_ ADMIRAL; _they are met by the_ Apothecary _with the gloves, which he gives to the_ OLD QUEEN. _Apoth._ Madam, I beseech your grace to accept this simple gift. _Old Q. of Nav._ Thanks, my good friend. Hold, take thou this reward. [_Gives a purse._ _Apoth._ I humbly thank your majesty. [_Exit._ _Old Q. of Nav._ Methinks the gloves have a very strong perfume, The scent whereof doth make my head to ache. _Nav._ Doth not your grace know the man that gave them you? _Old Q. of Nav._ Not well; but do remember such a man. _Adm._ Your grace was ill-advised to take them, then, Considering of these dangerous times. 10 _Old Q. of Nav._ Help, son Navarre! I am poisoned! _Mar._ The heavens forbid your highness such mishap! _Nav._ The late suspicion of the Duke of Guise Might well have moved your highness to beware How you did meddle with such dangerous gifts. _Mar._ Too late it is, my lord, if that be true, To blame her highness; but I hope it be Only some natural passion makes her sick. _Old Q. of Nav._ O no, sweet Margaret! the fatal poison Works within my head; my brain-pan breaks; 20 My heart doth faint; I die! [_Dies._ _Nav._ My mother poisoned here before my face! O gracious God, what times are these! O grant, sweet God, my days may end with hers, That I with her may die and live again! _Mar._ Let not this heavy chance, my dearest lord (For whose effects my soul is massacrèd), Infect thy gracious breast with fresh supply To aggravate our sudden misery. _Adm._ Come, my lords, let us bear her body hence, 30 And see it honoured with just solemnity. [_As they are going out, the_ Soldier _dischargeth his musket at the_ ADMIRAL. _Con._ What, are you hurt, my Lord High Admiral? _Adm._ I, my good lord, shot through the arm.