Gui. Sir, I intend the greatness of the king;
The greatness of all France, whom it imports
To make their arms their business, aim, and glory;
And where so proper as upon those rebels,
That covered all the state with blood and death?

Gril. Stored arsenals and armouries, fields of horse,
Ordnance, munition, and the nerve of war,
Sound infantry, not harassed and diseased,
To meet the fierce Navarre, should first be thought on.

Gui. I find, my lord, the argument grows warm,
Therefore, thus much, and I have done:  I go
To join the Holy League in this great war,
In which no place of office, or command,
Not of the greatest, shall be bought or sold;
Whereas too often honours are conferred
On soldiers, and no soldiers:  This man knighted,
Because he charged a troop before his dinner,
And sculked behind a hedge i’the afternoon: 
I will have strict examination made
Betwixt the meritorious and the base.

Gril. You have mouthed it bravely, and there is no doubt
Your deeds would answer well your haughty words;
Yet let me tell you, sir, there is a man,
(Curse on the hearts that hate him!) that would better,
Better than you, or all your puffy race,
That better would become the great battalion;
That when he shines in arms, and suns the field,
Moves, speaks, and fights, and is himself a war.

Gui. Your idol, sir; you mean the great Navarre:  But yet—­

Gril. No yet, my lord of Guise, no yet;
By arms, I bar you that; I swear, no yet;
For never was his like, nor shall again. 
Though voted from his right by your cursed League.

Gui. Judge not too rashly of the Holy League, But look at home.

Gril. Ha! darest thou justify Those villains?

Gui. I’ll not justify a villain,
More than yourself; but if you thus proceed,
If every heated breath can puff away,
On each surmise, the lives of free-born people,
What need that awful general convocation,
The assembly of the states?—­nay, let me urge,—­
If thus they vilify the Holy League,
What may their heads expect?

Gril. What, if I could, They should be certain of,—­whole piles of fire.

Gui. Colonel, ’tis very well I know your mind,
Which, without fear, or flattery to your person,
I’ll tell the king; and then, with his permission,
Proclaim it for a warning to our people.

Gril. Come, you’re a murderer yourself within, A traitor.

Gui. Thou a ——­ hot old hair-brained fool.

Gril. You were complotter with the cursed League, The black abettor of our Harry’s death.

Gui. ’Tis false.

Gril. ’Tis true, as thou art double-hearted:  Thou double traitor, to conspire so basely; And when found out, more basely to deny’t.