Gril. Angel, or devil, I will.—­Nay, at this rate,
She’ll make me shortly bring him to her bed.—­
Bawd for him? no, he shall make me run my head
Into a cannon, when ’tis firing, first;
That’s honourable sport.  But I’ll retire,
And if she plays me false, here’s that shall mend her.
                             [Touching his Dagger, exit. MARMOUTIERE
                              sits.  Song and Dance.

Enter the King.

King. After the breathing of a love-sick heart Upon your hand, once more,—­nay twice,—­forgive me.

Mar. I discompose you, sir.

King. Thou dost, by heaven;
But with such charming pleasure,
I love, and tremble, as at angels’ view.

Mar. Love me, my lord?

King. Who should be loved, but you? 
So loved, that even my crown, and self are vile,
While you are by.  Try me upon despair;
My kingdom at the stake, ambition starved,
Revenge forgot, and all great appetites
That whet uncommon spirits to aspire,
So once a day I may have leave—­
Nay, madam, then you fear me.

Mar. Fear you, sir! what is there dreadful in you? 
You’ve all the graces that can crown mankind;
Yet wear them so, as if you did not know them;
So stainless, fearless, free in all your actions,
As if heaven lent you to the world to pattern.

King. Madam, I find you are no petitioner;
My people would not treat me in this sort,
Though ’twere to gain a part of their design;
But to the Guise they deal their faithless praise
As fast, as you your flattery to me;
Though for what end I cannot guess, except
You come, like them, to mock at my misfortunes.

Mar. Forgive you, heaven, that thought!  No, mighty monarch, The love of all the good, and wonder of the great; I swear, by heaven, my heart adores, and loves you.

King. O madam, rise.

Mar. Nay, were you, sir, unthroned
By this seditious rout that dare despise you,
Blast all my days, ye powers! torment my nights;
Nay, let the misery invade my sex,
That could not for the royal cause, like me,
Throw all their luxury before your feet,
And follow you, like pilgrims, through the world.

Gril. Sound wind and limb! ’fore God, a gallant girl! [Aside.

King. What shall I answer to thee, O thou balm
To heal a broken, yet a kingly heart! 
For, so I swear I will be to my last. 
Come to my arms, and be thy Harry’s angel,
Shine through my cares, and make my crown sit easy.

Mar. O never, sir.

King. What said you, Marmoutiere?  Why dost thou turn thy beauties into frowns?

Mar. You know, sir, ’tis impossible; no more.

King. No more?—­and with that stern resolved behaviour? 
By heaven! were I a dying, and the priest
Should urge my last confession, I’d cry out,
Oh Marmoutiere! and yet thou say’st,—­No more!