_Mar._ Nay, were you, sir, unthroned By this seditious rout that dare despise you, Blast all my days, ye powers! torment my nights; Nay, let the misery invade my sex, That could not for the royal cause, like me, Throw all their luxury before your feet, And follow you, like pilgrims, through the world. _Gril._ Sound wind and limb! 'fore God, a gallant girl! [_Aside._ _King._ What shall I answer to thee, O thou balm To heal a broken, yet a kingly heart! For, so I swear I will be to my last. Come to my arms, and be thy Harry's angel, Shine through my cares, and make my crown sit easy. _Mar._ O never, sir. _King._ What said you, Marmoutiere? Why dost thou turn thy beauties into frowns? _Mar._ You know, sir, 'tis impossible; no more. _King._ No more?--and with that stern resolved behaviour? By heaven! were I a dying, and the priest Should urge my last confession, I'd cry out, Oh Marmoutiere! and yet thou say'st,--No more! _Mar._ 'Tis well, sir; I have lost my aim, farewell. _King._ Come back! O stay, my life flows after you. _Mar._ No, sir, I find I am a trouble to you; You will not hear my suit. _King._ You cannot go, You shall not.--O your suit, I kneel to grant it; I beg you take whatever you demand. _Mar._ Then, sir, thus low, or prostrate if you please, Let me intreat for Guise. _King._ Ha, madam, what! For Guise; for Guise! that stubborn arrogant rebel, That laughs at proffered mercy, slights his pardon, Mocks royal grace, and plots upon my life? Ha! and do you protect him? then the world Is sworn to Henry's death: Does beauty too, And innocence itself conspire against me? Then let me tamely yield my glories up, Which once I vowed with my drawn sword to wear To my last drop of blood.--Come Guise, come cardinal, All you loved traitors, come--I strip to meet you; Sheathe all your daggers in curst Henry's heart. _Mar._ This I expected; but when you have heard How far I would intreat your majesty, Perhaps you'll be more calm. _King._ See, I am hushed; Speak then; how far, madam, would you command? _Mar._ Not to proceed to last extremities, Before the wound is desperate. Think alone, For no man judges like your majesty: Take your own methods; all the heads of France Cannot so well advise you, as yourself. Therefore resume, my lord, your god-like temper, Yet do not bear more than a monarch should; Believe it, sir, the more your majesty Draws back your arm, the more of fate it carries. _King._ Thou genius of my state, thou perfect model Of heaven itself, and abstract of the angels, Forgive the late disturbance of my soul! I'm clear by nature, as a rockless stream; But they dig through the gravel of my heart, And raise the mud of passions up to cloud me; Therefore let me conjure you, do not go; 'Tis said, the Guise will come in spite of me; Suppose it possible, and stay to advise me. _Mar._ I will; but, on your royal word, no more.