Mar. ’Tis well, sir; I have lost my aim, farewell.

King. Come back!  O stay, my life flows after you.

Mar. No, sir, I find I am a trouble to you; You will not hear my suit.

King. You cannot go, You shall not.—­O your suit, I kneel to grant it; I beg you take whatever you demand.

Mar. Then, sir, thus low, or prostrate if you please, Let me intreat for Guise.

King. Ha, madam, what! 
For Guise; for Guise! that stubborn arrogant rebel,
That laughs at proffered mercy, slights his pardon,
Mocks royal grace, and plots upon my life? 
Ha! and do you protect him? then the world
Is sworn to Henry’s death:  Does beauty too,
And innocence itself conspire against me? 
Then let me tamely yield my glories up,
Which once I vowed with my drawn sword to wear
To my last drop of blood.—­Come Guise, come cardinal,
All you loved traitors, come—­I strip to meet you;
Sheathe all your daggers in curst Henry’s heart.

Mar. This I expected; but when you have heard
How far I would intreat your majesty,
Perhaps you’ll be more calm.

King. See, I am hushed; Speak then; how far, madam, would you command?

Mar. Not to proceed to last extremities,
Before the wound is desperate.  Think alone,
For no man judges like your majesty: 
Take your own methods; all the heads of France
Cannot so well advise you, as yourself. 
Therefore resume, my lord, your god-like temper,
Yet do not bear more than a monarch should;
Believe it, sir, the more your majesty
Draws back your arm, the more of fate it carries.

King. Thou genius of my state, thou perfect model
Of heaven itself, and abstract of the angels,
Forgive the late disturbance of my soul! 
I’m clear by nature, as a rockless stream;
But they dig through the gravel of my heart,
And raise the mud of passions up to cloud me;
Therefore let me conjure you, do not go;
’Tis said, the Guise will come in spite of me;
Suppose it possible, and stay to advise me.

Mar. I will; but, on your royal word, no more.

King. I will be easy,
To my last gasp, as your own virgin thoughts,
And never dare to breathe my passion more;
Yet you’ll allow me now and then to sigh
As we discourse, and court you with my eyes?

  Enter ALPHONSO.

Why do you wave your hand, and warn me hence? 
So looks the poor condemned,
When justice beckons, there’s no hope of pardon. 
Sternly, like you, the judge the victim eyes,
And thus, like me, the wretch, despairing, dies.
                                                [Exit with ALPHONSO.

  Enter GRILLON.

Gril. O rare, rare creature!  By the power that made me,
Wer’t possible we could be damned again
By some new Eve, such virtue might redeem us. 
Oh I could clasp thee, but that my arms are rough,
Till all thy sweets were broke with my embraces,
And kiss thy beauties to a dissolution!