_Duch._ To such A one, my Lord, as, when she reads my lines, Will laugh, I fear me, at their good array. _Guise._ I pray thee, let me see. _Duch._ O no, my lord; a woman only must Partake the secrets of my heart. _Guise._ But, madam, I must see. [_Seizes the paper._ 20 Are these your secrets that no man must know! _Duch._ O, pardon me, my lord! _Guise_. Thou trothless and unjust! what lines are these? Am I grown old, or is thy lust grown young? Or hath my love been so obscured in thee, That others need to comment on my text? Is all my love forgot, which held thee dear, I, dearer than the apple of mine eye? Is Guise's glory but a cloudy mist, In sight and judgment of thy lustful eye? 30 _Mort Dieu!_ were[404] not the fruit within thy womb, Of whose increase I set some longing hope, This wrathful hand should strike thee to the heart. Hence, strumpet! hide thy head for shame; And fly my presence if thou look to live! [_Exit_ DUCHESS. O wicked sex, perjùrèd and unjust! Now do I see that from the very first Her eyes and looks sow'd seeds of perjury. But villain, he, to whom these lines should go, Shall buy her love even with his dearest blood. 40 [_Exit._ SCENE XVI. _Enter_[405] _the_ KING OF NAVARRE, PLESHÉ, BARTUS, _and train, with drums and trumpets_. _Nav._ My lords, sith in a quarrel just and right We undertake to manage these our wars Against the proud disturbers of the faith (I mean the Guise, the Pope, and king of Spain, Who set themselves to tread us under foot, And rent our true religion from this land; But for you know our quarrel is no more But to defend[406] their strange inventions, Which they will put us to with sword and fire), We must with resolute minds resolve to fight, 10 In honour of our God, and country's good. Spain is the council-chamber of the Pope, Spain is the place where he makes peace and war; And Guise for Spain hath now incensed the king To send his power to meet us in the field. _Bar._ Then in this bloody brunt they may behold The sole endeavour of your princely care, To plant the true succession of the faith, In spite of Spain and all his heresies. _Nav._ The power of vengeance now encamps itself 20 Upon the haughty mountains of my breast; Plays with her gory colours of revenge, Whom I respect as leaves of boasting green, That change their colour when the winter comes, When I shall vaunt as victor in revenge. _Enter a_ Messenger. How now, sirrah! what news?