_Dum._ My noble brother murder'd by the king! O, what may I do for to revenge thy death? The king's alone, it cannot satisfy. Sweet Duke of Guise, our prop to lean upon, Now thou art dead, here is no stay for us. I am thy brother, and I'll revenge thy death, And root Valois his line from forth of France; And beat proud Bourbon to his native home, That basely seeks to join with such a king, Whose murderous thoughts will be his overthrow. 10 He will'd the governor of Orleans, in his name, That I with speed should have been put to death; But that's prevented, for to end his life, And[425] all those traitors to the Church of Rome That durst attempt to murder noble Guise. _Enter_ Friar. _Fri._ My lord, I come to bring you news that your brother the Cardinal of Lorraine, by the king's consent, is lately strangled unto death. _Dum._ My brother Cardinal slain, and I alive! O words of power to kill a thousand men!-- 20 Come, let us away, and levy men; 'Tis war that must assuage this tyrant's pride. _Fri._ My lord, hear me but speak. I am a friar of the order of the Jacobins, That for my conscience' sake will kill the king. _Dum._ But what doth move thee, above the rest, to do the deed? _Fri._ O my lord, I have been a great sinner in my days! and the deed is meritorious. _Dum._ But how wilt thou get opportunity? 30 _Fri._ Tush, my lord, let me alone for that. _Dum._ Friar, come with me; We will go talk more of this within. [_Exeunt._ SCENE XXIV. _Drums and Trumpets. Enter_[426] KING HENRY, _the_ KING OF NAVARRE, EPERNOUN, BARTUS, PLESHÈ, Soldiers, _and_ Attendants. _Henry._ Brother of Navarre, I sorrow much That ever I was prov'd your enemy, And that the sweet and princely mind you bear Was ever troubled with injurious wars. I vow, as I am lawful king of France, To recompense your reconcilèd love, With all the honours and affections That ever I vouchsaf'd my dearest friends. _Nav._ It is enough if that Navarre may be Esteemèd faithful to the king of France, 10 Whose service he may still command till death. _Henry._ Thanks to my kingly brother of Navarre. Then here we'll lie before Lutetia-walls,[427] Girting this strumpet city with our siege, Till, surfeiting with our afflicting arms, She cast her hateful stomach to the earth. _Enter a_ Messenger. _Mes._ An it please your majesty, here is a friar of the order of the Jacobins, sent from the President of Paris, that craves access unto your grace. _Henry._ Let him come in. [_Exit_ Mess. 20 _Enter_ Friar, _with a letter._