Alph. The provocation, sir.

King. I know it well;
But,—­if thou’dst have my heart within thy hand,—­
All conjurations blot the name of kings. 
What honours, interest, were the world to buy him,
Shall make a brave man smile, and do a murder? 
Therefore I hate the memory of Brutus,
I mean the latter, so cried up in story. 
Caesar did ill, but did it in the sun,
And foremost in the field; but sneaking Brutus,
Whom none but cowards and white-livered knaves
Would dare commend, lagging behind his fellows,
His dagger in his bosom, stabbed his father. 
This is a blot, which Tully’s eloquence
Could ne’er wipe off, though the mistaken man
Makes bold to call those traitors,—­men divine.

Alph. Tully was wise, but wanted constancy.

  Enter Queen Mother, and Abbot DELBENE.

Qu.  M. Good-even, sir; ’tis just the time you ordered To wait on your decrees.

King. Oh, madam!

Qu.  M. Sir?

King. Oh mother,—­but I cannot make it way;—­ Chaos and shades,—­’tis huddled up in night.

Qu.  M. Speak then, for speech is morning to the mind; It spreads the beauteous images abroad, Which else lie furled and clouded in the soul.

King. You would embark me in a sea of blood.

Qu.  M. You see the plot directly on your person;
But give it o’er, I did but state the case. 
Take Guise into your heart, and drive your friends;
Let knaves in shops prescribe you how to sway,
And, when they read your acts with their vile breath,
Proclaim aloud, they like not this or that;
Then in a drove come lowing to the Louvre,
And cry,—­they’ll have it mended, that they will,
Or you shall be no king.

King. ’Tis true, the people
Ne’er know a mean, when once they get the power;
But O, if the design we lay should fail,
Better the traitors never should be touched,
If execution cries not out—­’Tis done.

Qu.  M. No, sir, you cannot fear the sure design:  But I have lived too long, since my own blood Dares not confide in her that gave him being.

King. Stay, madam, stay; come back, forgive my fears,
Where all our thoughts should creep like deepest streams: 
Know, then, I hate aspiring Guise to death;
Whored Margarita,—­plots upon my life,—­
And shall I not revenge?[7]

Qu.  M. Why, this is Harry;
Harry at Moncontour, when in his bloom
He saw the admiral Coligny’s back.[8]

King. O this whale Guise, with all the Lorrain fry! 
Might I but view him, after his plots and plunges,
Struck on those cowring shallows that await him,—­
This were a Florence master-piece indeed.

Qu.  M. He comes to take his leave.

King. Then for Champaigne;
But lies in wait till Paris is in arms. 
Call Grillon in.  All that I beg you now,
Is to be hushed upon the consultation,
As urns, that never blab.