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King. Aye, Mortimer, thou know'st that he is
And so shalt thou he 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. Dor. Mailam, 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 I 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 bis blood ? no.
King. Aye, inadam, yon ; for so the rumour runs.
Queen. That rumour is untrue ; for loviug 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
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 en force 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.
[Exit. Re-enter a Lord, with the head of MORTIMER. 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.
THE MASSACRE OF PARIS.
GUISE DECLARES HIS POLICY.
Guise. Now, Guise, begin those deep-engender'd
To burst abroad those never-dying flames
Which cannot be extinguish'd but by blood :
Ost 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 frain'd religion.
Religion ! 0 Diabole !
Fie, I am ashan'd, however that I seem,
To think a world of such a simple sound,
Of so great matter should be made the ground.
The gentle king, whose pleasure uncontrollid
Weakeneth his body, and will wasto his realın,
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.
Since thou hast all the cards within thy hands,
To shuffle or cut, take this as surest thing,
That, right or wrong, thou dcal thyself a king-
Ay, but, Navarre—'tis but a nook of France,
Sufficient yet for such a petty king,
That, with a rabblement of bis heretics,
Blinds Europe's eyes, and troubleth our estate.
Him will we—[Pointing to his sword.] but first let's
folow those in France
That hinder our possession to the crown.
As Caesar 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 ;