_Gui._ Peace, croaking raven!-- I'll seize him first, then make him a led monarch; I'll be declared lieutenant-general Amidst the three estates, that represent The glorious, full, majestic face of France, Which, in his own despite, the king shall call: So let him reign my tenant during life, His brother of Navarre shut out for ever, Branded with heresy, and barred from sway; That, when Valois consumed in ashes lies, The Phoenix race of Charlemain may rise. [_Exeunt._ SCENE V.--_The Louvre._ _Enter King, Queen-Mother, Abbot, and_ GRILLON. _King._ Dismissed with such contempt? _Gril._ Yes, 'faith, we past like beaten Romans underneath the fork. _King._ Give me my arms. _Gril._ For what? _King._ I'll lead you on. _Gril._ You are a true lion, but my men are sheep; If you run first, I'll swear they'll follow you. _King._ What, all turned cowards? not a man in France Dares set his foot by mine, and perish by me? _Gril._ Troth, I can't find them much inclined to perishing. _King._ What can be left in danger, but to dare? No matter for my arms, I'll go barefaced, And seize the first bold rebel that I meet. _Abb._ There's something of divinity in kings, That sits between their eyes, and guards their life. _Gril._ True, Abbot; but the mischief is, you churchmen Can see that something further than the crowd; These musket bullets have not read much logic, Nor are they given to make your nice distinctions: [_One enters, and gives the Queen a Note, she reads--_ One of them possibly may hit the king In some one part of him that's not divine; And so that mortal part of his majesty would draw the divinity of it into another world, sweet Abbot. _Qu. M._ 'Tis equal madness to go out or stay; The reverence due to kings is all transferred To haughty Guise; and when new gods are made, The old must quit the temple; you must fly. _King._ Death! had I wings, yet would I scorn to fly. _Gril._ Wings, or no wings, is not the question: If you won't fly for't, you must ride for't, And that comes much to one. _King._ Forsake my regal town! _Qu. M._ Forsake a bedlam; This note informs me fifteen thousand men Are marching to inclose the Louvre round. _Abb._ The business then admits no more dispute, You, madam, must be pleased to find the Guise; Seem easy, fearful, yielding, what you will; But still prolong the treaty all you can, To gain the king more time for his escape. _Qu. M._ I'll undertake it.--Nay, no thanks, my son. My blessing shall be given in your deliverance; That once performed, their web is all unravelled, And Guise is to begin his work again. [_Exit Q.M._ _King._ I go this minute. _Enter_ MARMOUTIERE. Nay, then another minute must be given.-- O how I blush, that thou shouldst see thy king Do this low act, that lessens all his fame: Death, must a rebel force me from my love! If it must be--