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These bloody hands shall tear his triple crown,
And fire accursed Rome about his ears ;
I'll fire his crazed buildings, and incense
The papal towers to kiss the holy earth.
Navarre, give me thy hand; I here do swear
To ruinate this wicked Church of Rome,
That hatcheth up such bloody practices :
And here protest eternal love to thee,
And to the Queen of England especially,
Whom God hath blest for hating popery.

Nav. These words revive my thoughts, and com

fort me,

To see your highness in this virtuous mind.

King. Tell me, surgeon, shall I live?

Surg. Alas, my lord, the wound is dangerous, For you are stricken with a poison'd knife. King. A poison'd knife!—What, shall the French

king die, Wounded and poison'd both at once ? EPER. Oh! that that damned villain were alive

again, That we might torture him with some new-found

death! BAR. He died a death too good; The devil of hell torture his wicked soul !

King. Oh! curse him not, since he is dead. 0, the fatal poison works within my breast. Tell me, surgeon, and flatter not-may I live!

SURG. Alas! my lord, your highness cannot live.

Nav. Surgeon, why say'st thou so? The king

may live.

King. O, no, Navarre, thou must be king of

France. Nav. Long may you live, and still be king of

France.
Eper. Or else, die Epernoune.
King. Sweet Epernoune, thy king must die. My

lords,
Fight in the quarrel of this valiant prince,
For he's your lawful king, and my next heir ;
Valois's line ends in my tragedy.
Now let the House of Bourbon wear the crowu,
And may't ne'er end in blood, as mine hath done.
Weep not, sweet Navarre, but revenge my

death.
Ah! Epernoune, is this thy love to me?
Henry, thy king, wipes off these childish tears,
And bids thee whet thy sword on Sextus' bones,
That it may keenly slice the Catholics.
He loves me not the best that sheds most tears,
But he that makes most lavish of his blood.
Fire Paris, where these treach'rous rebels lurk.
I die, Navarre! come bear me to my sepulchre;
Salute the Queen of England in my name,
And tell her Henry dies her faithful friend. [Dies.

Nav. Come, lords, take up the body of the

king,

That we may see it honourably interr’d:
And then I vow so to revenge his death,

SC.11.)

THE MASSACRE AT PARIS.

331

That Rome, and all those popish prelates there,
Shall curse the time that e'er Navarre was king,
And rul'd in France by Henry's fatal death.
[They march out, with the body of the king lying

on four men's shoulders, with a dead march,
drawing weapons on the ground,

!

D ID O, QUEEN OF CARTHAGE.

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