King. Aye, Mortimer, thou know'st that he is slain;

And so shalt thou be too. Why stays he here?
Bring him unto a hurdle, drag him forth,
Hang him, I say, and set his quarters up.
But bring his head back presently to me.

Queen. For my sake, sweet son, pity Mortimer.
Y. Mor. Madam, entreat not, I will rather die,
Than sue for life unto a paltry boy.

King. Hence with the traitor! with the murderer! Y. Mor. Base Fortune, now I see, that in thy wheel There is a point, to which when men aspire, They tumble headlong down: that point I touched, And, seeing there was no place to mount up higher, Why should I grieve at my declining fall? Farewell, fair queen; weep not for Mortimer, That scorns the world, and, as a traveller, Goes to discover countries yet unknown. King. What suffer you the traitor to delay? [MORTIMER is taken away.

Queen. As thou receivedest thy life from me,

Spill not the blood of gentle Mortimer.

King. This argues that you spilt my father's blood, Else would you not entreat for Mortimer.

Queen. I spill his blood? no.

King. Aye, madam, you; for so the rumour runs. Queen. That rumour is untrue; for loving thee,

Is this report raised on poor Isabel?

King. I do not think her so unnatural.

Second Lord. My lord, I fear me it will prove too

true.

King. Mother, you are suspected for his death, And therefore we commit you to the Tower,

Till farther trial may be made thereof;

If you be guilty, though I be your son,
Think not to find me slack or pitiful.

Queen. Nay, to my death, for too long have I lived, Whenas my son thinks to abridge my days.

King. Away with her, her words enforce these tears, And I shall pity her if she speak again.

Queen. Shall I not mourn for my beloved lord, And with the rest accompany him to his grave? Lord. Thus, madam, 'tis the king's will you shall hence.

Queen. He hath forgotten me; stay, I am his mother.

Lord. That boots not; therefore, gentle madam, go. Queen. Then come, sweet death, and rid me of this

grief.

Re-enter a Lord, with the head of MORTIMER.

[Exit.

Lord. My lord, here is the head of Mortimer.
King. Go fetch my father's hearse, where it shall lie ;
And bring my funeral robes. Accursed head,
Could I have ruled thee then, as I do now,

Thou had'st not hatched this monstrous treachery.
Here comes the hearse; help me to mourn, my lords.
Sweet father, here unto thy murdered ghost
I offer up this wicked traitor's head;

And let these tears, distilling from mine eyes,
Be witness of my grief and innocency.

[Exeunt.

Guise. Now, Guise, begin those deep-engender'd thoughts

To burst abroad those never-dying flames

Which cannot be extinguish'd but by blood:
Oft have I levell'd, and at last have learn'd
That peril is the chiefest way to happiness,
And resolution honour's fairest aim.
What glory is there in a common good,
That hangs for every peasant to achieve?
That like I best, that flies beyond my reach.
Set me to scale the high Pyramides,
And thereon set the diadem of France;
I'll either rend it with my nails to naught,
Or mount the top with my aspiring wings,

Although my downfall be the deepest hell.
For this I wake, when others think I sleep;
For this I wait, that scorn attendance else;
For this my quenchless thirst, whereon I build,
Hath often pleaded kindred to the king;

For this, this head, this heart, this hand, and sword,
Contrives, imagines, and fully executes,

Matters of import aimed at by many,

Yet understood by none;

For this, hath heaven engender'd me of earth;
For this, this earth sustains my body's weight,
And with this weight I'll counterpoise a crown,
Or with seditions weary all the world;
For this, from Spain the stately Catholics
Send Indian gold to coin me French ecues;
For this, have I a largess from the Pope,
A pension, and a dispensation too;
And by that privilege to work upon,
My policy hath fram'd religion.
Religion! O Diabole!

Fie, I am ashan'd, however that I seem,
To think a word of such a simple sound,
Of so great matter should be made the ground.
The gentle king, whose pleasure uncontroll'd
Weakeneth his body, and will waste his realm,
If I repair not what he ruinates-

Him, as a child, I daily win with words,
So that for proof he barely bears the name;
I execute, and he sustains the blame.

The Mother-Queen works wonders for my sake,
And in my love entombs the hope of France,
Rifling the bowels of her treasury,

To supply my wants and necessity.
Paris hath full five hundred colleges,
As monasteries, priories, abbeys, and halls,
Wherein are thirty thousand able men,

Besides a thousand sturdy student Catholics;
And more-of my knowledge, in one cloister keep
Five hundred fat Franciscan friars and priests:
All this, and more, if more may be compris'd,
To bring the will of our desires to end.

Then, Guise,

Since thou hast all the cards within thy hands,
To shuffle or cut, take this as surest thing,
That, right or wrong, thou deal thyself a king--
Ay, but, Navarre-'tis but a nook of France,
Sufficient yet for such a petty king,

That, with a rabblement of his heretics,

Blinds Europe's eyes, and troubleth our estate.
Him will we-[Pointing to his sword.] but first let's

follow those in France

That hinder our possession to the crown.

As Cæsar to his soldiers, so say I

Those that hate me will I learn to loathe.

Give me a look, that, when I bend the brows,
Pale death may walk in furrows of my face;
A hand, that with a grasp may gripe the world ;
An ear to hear what my detractors say ;