_Gril._ Rather let me demand your majesty, Why fly you from yourself? I've heard you say, You'd arm against the League; why do you not? The thoughts of such as you, are starts divine; And when you mould with second cast the spirit, The air, the life, the golden vapour's gone. _King._ Soft, my old friend; Guise plots upon my life; Polin shall tell thee more. Hast thou not heard The insufferable affronts he daily offers,-- War without treasure on the Huguenots; While I am forced against my bent of soul, Against all laws, all custom, right, succession, To cast Navarre from the Imperial line? _Gril._ Why do you, sir? Death, let me tell the traitor-- _King._ Peace, Guise is going to his government; You are his foe of old; go to him, Grillon; Visit him as from me, to be employed In this great war against the Huguenots; And, pr'ythee, tell him roundly of his faults, No farther, honest Grillon. _Gril._ Shall I fight him? _King._ I charge thee, not. _Gril._ If he provokes me, strike him; You'll grant me that? _King._ Not so, my honest soldier; Yet speak to him. _Gril._ I will, by heaven, to the purpose; And, if he force a beating, who can help it? [_Exit._ _King._ Follow, Alphonso; when the storm is up, Call me to part them. _Qu. M._ Grillon, to ask him pardon, Will let Guise know we are not in the dark. _King._ You hit the judgment; yet, O yet, there's more; Something upon my heart, after these counsels, So soft, and so unworthy to be named!-- _Qu. M._ They say, that Grillon's niece is come to court, And means to kiss your hand. [_Exit._ _King._ Could I but hope it! O my dear father, pardon me in this, And then enjoin me all that man can suffer; But sure the powers above will take our tears For such a fault--love is so like themselves. [_Exeunt._ SCENE II.--_The Louvre._ _Enter_ GUISE, _attended with his Family;_ MARMOUTIERE _meeting him new drest, attended, &c._ _Gui._ Furies! she keeps her word, and I am lost; Yet let not my ambition shew it to her; For, after all, she does it but to try me, And foil my vowed design.--Madam, I see You're come to court; the robes you wear become you; Your air, your mien, your charms, your every grace, Will kill at least your thousand in a day. _Mar._ What, a whole day, and kill but one poor thousand! An hour you mean, and in that hour ten thousand. Yes, I would make with every glance a murder.-- Mend me this curl. _Gui._ Woman! [_Aside._ _Mar._ You see, my lord, I have my followers, like you. I swear, The court's a heavenly place; but--O, my heart! I know not why that sigh should come uncalled; Perhaps, 'twas for your going; yet I swear, I never was so moved, O Guise, as now, Just as you entered, when from yonder window I saw the king. _Gui._ Woman, all over woman! [_Aside._ The world confesses, madam, Henry's form Is noble and majestic.