_Gui._ Madam, I've thought, and trust you with my soul. You saw but now my parting with my brother, The prelate too of Lyons; it was debated Warmly against me, that I should go on. _Mar._ Did I not tell you, sir? _Gui._ True; but in spite Of those imperial arguments they urged, I was not to be worked from second thought: There we broke off; and mark me, if I live, You are the saint that makes a convert of me. _Mar._ Go then:--O heaven! Why must I still suspect you? Why heaves my heart, and overflow my eyes? Yet if you live, O Guise,--there, there's the cause,-- I never shall converse, nor see you more. _Gui._ O say not so, for once again I'll see you. Were you this very night to lodge with angels, Yet say not never; for I hope by virtue To merit heaven, and wed you late in glory. _Mar._ This night, my lord, I'm a recluse for ever. _Gui._ Ha! stay till morning: tapers are too dim; Stay till the sun rises to salute you; Stay till I lead you to that dismal den Of virgins buried quick, and stay for ever. _Mar._ Alas! your suit is vain, for I have vowed it: Nor was there any other way to clear The imputed stains of my suspected honour. _Gui._ Hear me a word!--one sigh, one tear, at parting, And one last look; for, O my earthly saint, I see your face pale as the cherubins' At Adam's fall. _Mar._ O heaven! I now confess, My heart bleeds for thee, Guise. _Gui._ Why, madam, why? _Mar._ Because by this disorder, And that sad fate that bodes upon your brow, I do believe you love me more than glory. _Gui._ Without an oath I do; therefore have mercy, And think not death could make me tremble thus; Be pitiful to those infirmities Which thus unman me; stay till the council's over; If you are pleased to grant an hour or two To my last prayer, I'll thank you as my saint: If you refuse me, madam, I'll not murmur. _Mar._ Alas, my Guise!--O heaven, what did I say? But take it, take it; if it be too kind, Honour may pardon it, since 'tis my last. _Gui._ O let me crawl, vile as I am, and kiss Your sacred robe.--Is't possible! your hand! [_She gives him her hand._ O that it were my last expiring moment, For I shall never taste the like again. _Mar._ Farewell, my proselyte! your better genius Watch your ambition. _Gui._ I have none but you: Must I ne'er see you more? _Mar._ I have sworn you must not: Which thought thus roots me here, melts my resolves, [_Weeps._ And makes me loiter when the angels call me. _Gui._ O ye celestial dews! O paradise! O heaven! O joys, ne'er to be tasted more! _Mar._ Nay, take a little more: cold Marmoutiere, The temperate, devoted Marmoutiere Is gone,--a last embrace I must bequeath you. _Gui._ And O let me return it with another!