throne;
  Or has all majesty fled from the earth,
  That women must start up, and in your council
  Speak, think, and act for ye; and, lest your vassals,
  The very dirt beneath your feet, rise up
  And cast ye off, must women, too, defend ye? 
  For shame, my lords, all, all of ye, for shame,—­
  Off, off with sword and sceptre, for there is
  No loyalty in subjects; and in kings,
  No king-like terror to enforce their rights.

Meanwhile Lautrec proposes to his sister Francoise, the hand of his friend, the gallant Laval; whilst the fair maiden is importuned by Francis, who endeavours to make the poet Clement Marot the bearer of his intrigue.  In a scene between Francis and the poet, the licentious impatience of the King, and the unsullied honour of Clement are finely contrasted.

FRANCIS.

  I would I’d borne the scroll myself, thy words
  Image her forth so fair.

CLEMENT.

  Do they, indeed? 
  Then sorrow seize my tongue, for, look you, sir,
  I will not speak of your own fame or honour,
  Nor of your word to me:  king’s words, I find,
  Are drafts on our credulity, not pledges
  Of their own truth.  You have been often pleas’d
  To shower your royal favours on my head;
  And fruitful honours from your kindly will
  Have rais’d me far beyond my fondest hopes;
  But had I known such service was to be
  The nearest way my gratitude might take
  To solve the debt, I’d e’en have given back
  All that I hold of you:  and, now, not e’en
  Your crown and kingdom could requite to me
  The cutting sense of shame that I endur’d
  When on me fell the sad reproachful glance
  Which told me how I stood in the esteem
  Of yonder lady.  Let me tell you, sir,
  You’ve borrow’d for a moment what whole years
  Cannot bestow—­an honourable name. 
  Now fare you well; I’ve sorrow at my heart,
  To think your majesty hath reckon’d thus
  Upon my nature.  I was poor before,
  Therefore I can be poor again without
  Regret, so I lose not mine own esteem.

* * * * *

FRANCIS.

  Excellent. 
  Oh, ye are precious wooers, all of ye. 
  I marvel how ye ever ope your lips
  Unto, or look upon that fearful thing,
  A lovely woman.

CLEMENT.

  And I marvel, sir,
  At those who do not feel the majesty,—­
  By heaven, I’d almost said the holiness,—­
  That circles round a fair and virtuous woman: 
  There is a gentle purity that breathes
  In such a one, mingled with chaste respect,
  And modest pride of her own excellence,—­
  A shrinking nature, that is so adverse
  To aught unseemly, that I could as soon
  Forget the sacred love I owe to heav’n,
  As dare, with impure thoughts, to taint the air
  Inhal’d by such a being:  than whom, my liege,
  Heaven cannot look on anything more holy,
  Or earth be proud of anything more fair. [Exit.