_King._ I know it well; But,--if thou'dst have my heart within thy hand,-- All conjurations blot the name of kings. What honours, interest, were the world to buy him, Shall make a brave man smile, and do a murder? Therefore I hate the memory of Brutus, I mean the latter, so cried up in story. Caesar did ill, but did it in the sun, And foremost in the field; but sneaking Brutus, Whom none but cowards and white-livered knaves Would dare commend, lagging behind his fellows, His dagger in his bosom, stabbed his father. This is a blot, which Tully's eloquence Could ne'er wipe off, though the mistaken man Makes bold to call those traitors,--men divine. _Alph._ Tully was wise, but wanted constancy. _Enter Queen Mother, and Abbot_ DELBENE. _Qu. M._ Good-even, sir; 'tis just the time you ordered To wait on your decrees. _King._ Oh, madam! _Qu. M._ Sir? _King._ Oh mother,--but I cannot make it way;-- Chaos and shades,--'tis huddled up in night. _Qu. M._ Speak then, for speech is morning to the mind; It spreads the beauteous images abroad, Which else lie furled and clouded in the soul. _King._ You would embark me in a sea of blood. _Qu. M._ You see the plot directly on your person; But give it o'er, I did but state the case. Take Guise into your heart, and drive your friends; Let knaves in shops prescribe you how to sway, And, when they read your acts with their vile breath, Proclaim aloud, they like not this or that; Then in a drove come lowing to the Louvre, And cry,--they'll have it mended, that they will, Or you shall be no king. _King._ 'Tis true, the people Ne'er know a mean, when once they get the power; But O, if the design we lay should fail, Better the traitors never should be touched, If execution cries not out--'Tis done. _Qu. M._ No, sir, you cannot fear the sure design: But I have lived too long, since my own blood Dares not confide in her that gave him being. _King._ Stay, madam, stay; come back, forgive my fears, Where all our thoughts should creep like deepest streams: Know, then, I hate aspiring Guise to death; Whored Margarita,--plots upon my life,-- And shall I not revenge?[7] _Qu. M._ Why, this is Harry; Harry at Moncontour, when in his bloom He saw the admiral Coligny's back.[8] _King._ O this whale Guise, with all the Lorrain fry! Might I but view him, after his plots and plunges, Struck on those cowring shallows that await him,-- This were a Florence master-piece indeed. _Qu. M._ He comes to take his leave. _King._ Then for Champaigne; But lies in wait till Paris is in arms. Call Grillon in. All that I beg you now, Is to be hushed upon the consultation, As urns, that never blab. _Qu. M._ Doubt not your friends; Love them, and then you need not fear your foes. _Enter_ GRILLON. _King._ Welcome, my honest man, my old tried friend. Why dost thou fly me, Grillon, and retire?