_Gui._ Why then the noble plot is fit for birth; And labouring France cries out for midwife hands. We missed surprising of the king at Blois, When last the states were held: 'twas oversight; Beware we make not such another blot. _Card._ This holy time of Lent we have him sure; He goes unguarded, mixed with whipping friars. In that procession, he's more fit for heaven: What hinders us to seize the royal penitent, And close him in a cloister? _Cur._ Or dispatch him; I love to make all sure. _Gui._ No; guard him safe; Thin diet will do well; 'twill starve him into reason, 'Till he exclude his brother of Navarre, And graft succession on a worthier choice. To favour this, five hundred men in arms Shall stand prepared, to enter at your call, And speed the work; St Martin's gate was named; But the sheriff Conty, who commands that ward, Refused me passage there. _Buss._ I know that Conty; A snivelling, conscientious, loyal rogue; He'll peach, and ruin all. _Card._ Give out he's arbitrary, a Navarist, A heretic; discredit him betimes, And make his witness void. _Cur._ I'll swear him guilty. I swallow oaths as easy as snap-dragon, Mock-fire that never burns. _Gui._ Then, Bussy, be it your care to admit my troops, At Port St Honore: [_Rises._] Night wears apace, And day-light must not peep on dark designs. I will myself to court, pay formal duty, Take leave, and to my government retire; Impatient to be soon recalled, to see The king imprisoned, and the nation free[2]. [_Exeunt._ SCENE II. _Enter_ MALICORN _solus._ _Mal._ Each dismal minute, when I call to mind The promise, that I made the Prince of Hell, In one-and-twenty years to be his slave, Of which near twelve are gone, my soul runs back, The wards of reason roll into their spring. O horrid thought! but one-and-twenty years, And twelve near past, then to be steeped in fire, Dashed against rocks, or snatched from molten lead, Reeking, and dropping, piece-meal borne by winds, And quenched ten thousand fathom in the deep!-- But hark! he comes: see there! my blood stands still, [_Knocking at the Door._ My spirits start on end for Guise's fate. _A Devil rises._ _Mal._ What counsel does the fate of Guise require? _Dev._ Remember, with his prince there's no delay. But, the sword drawn, to fling the sheath away; Let not the fear of hell his spirit grieve, The tomb is still, whatever fools believe: Laugh at the tales which withered sages bring, Proverbs and morals; let the waxen king, That rules the hive, be born without a sting; Let Guise by blood resolve to mount to power. And he is great as Mecca's emperor. He comes; bid him not stand on altar-vows, But then strike deepest, when he lowest bows; Tell him, fate's awed when an usurper springs, And joins to crowd out just indulgent kings. [_Vanishes._ SCENE III. _Enter the Duke of_ GUISE, _and Duke of_ MAYENNE.