SCENE II.

  Enter MALICORN solus.

Mal. Each dismal minute, when I call to mind
The promise, that I made the Prince of Hell,
In one-and-twenty years to be his slave,
Of which near twelve are gone, my soul runs back,
The wards of reason roll into their spring. 
O horrid thought! but one-and-twenty years,
And twelve near past, then to be steeped in fire,
Dashed against rocks, or snatched from molten lead,
Reeking, and dropping, piece-meal borne by winds,
And quenched ten thousand fathom in the deep!—­
But hark! he comes:  see there! my blood stands still,
                                              [Knocking at the Door.
My spirits start on end for Guise’s fate.

A Devil rises.

Mal. What counsel does the fate of Guise require?

Dev. Remember, with his prince there’s no delay. 
But, the sword drawn, to fling the sheath away;
Let not the fear of hell his spirit grieve,
The tomb is still, whatever fools believe: 
Laugh at the tales which withered sages bring,
Proverbs and morals; let the waxen king,
That rules the hive, be born without a sting;
Let Guise by blood resolve to mount to power. 
And he is great as Mecca’s emperor. 
He comes; bid him not stand on altar-vows,
But then strike deepest, when he lowest bows;
Tell him, fate’s awed when an usurper springs,
And joins to crowd out just indulgent kings. [Vanishes.

SCENE III.

  Enter the Duke of GUISE, and Duke of MAYENNE.

May. All offices and dignities he gives
To your profest and most inveterate foes;
But if he were inclined, as we could wish him,
There is a lady-regent at his ear,
That never pardons.

Gui. Poison on her name! 
Take my hand on’t, that cormorant dowager
Will never rest, till she has all our heads
In her lap.  I was at Bayonne with her,
When she, the king, and grisly d’Alva met. 
Methinks, I see her listening now before me,
Marking the very motion of his beard,
His opening nostrils, and his dropping lids. 
I hear him croak too to the gaping council,—­
Fish for the great fish, take no care for frogs,
Cut off the poppy-heads, sir;—­madam, charm
The winds but fast, the billows will be still[3].

May. But, sir, how comes it you should be thus warm,
Still pushing counsels when among your friends;
Yet, at the court, cautious, and cold as age,
Your voice, your eyes, your mien so different,
You seem to me two men?