Gui. Then was’t not Henry’s fear preserved my life?

Mar. You know him better, or you ought to know him:  He’s born to give you fear, not to receive it.

Gui. Say this again; but add, you gave not up
Your honour as the ransom of my life;
For, if you did, ’twere better I had died.

Mar. And so it were.

Gui. Why said you, so it were?  For though ’tis true, methinks ’tis much unkind.

Mar. My lord, we are not now to talk of kindness. 
If you acknowledge I have saved your life,
Be grateful in return, and do an act,
Your honour, though unasked by me, requires.

Gui. By heaven, and you, whom next to heaven I love, (If I said more, I fear I should not lie,) I’ll do whate’er my honour will permit.

Mar. Go, throw yourself at Henry’s royal feet, And rise not till approved a loyal subject.

Gui. A duteous loyal subject I was ever.

Mar. I’ll put it short, my lord; depart from Paris.

Gui. I cannot leave
My country, friends, religion, all at stake. 
Be wise, and be before-hand with your fortune;
Prevent the turn, forsake the ruined court;
Stay here, and make a merit of your love.

Mar. No; I’ll return, and perish in those ruins.  I find thee now, ambitious, faithless, Guise.  Farewell, the basest and the last of men!

Gui. Stay, or—­O heaven!—­I’ll force you:  Stay—­

Mar. I do believe
So ill of you, so villainously ill,
That, if you durst, you would: 
Honour you’ve little, honesty you’ve less;
But conscience you have none: 
Yet there’s a thing called fame, and men’s esteem,
Preserves me from your force.  Once more, farewell. 
Look on me, Guise; thou seest me now the last;
Though treason urge not thunder on thy head,
This one departing glance shall flash thee dead. [Exit.

Gui. Ha, said she true?  Have I so little honour? 
Why, then, a prize so easy and so fair
Had never ’scaped my gripe:  but mine she is;
For that’s set down as sure as Henry’s fall. 
But my ambition, that she calls my crime;—­
False, false, by fate! my right was born with me. 
And heaven confest it in my very frame;
The fires, that would have formed ten thousand angels,
Were crammed together for my single soul.

  Enter MALICORN.

Mal. My lord, you trifle precious hours away;
The heavens look gaudily upon your greatness,
And the crowned moments court you as they fly. 
Brisac and fierce Aumale have pent the Swiss,
And folded them like sheep in holy ground;
Where now, with ordered pikes, and colours furled,
They wait the word that dooms them all to die: 
Come forth, and bless the triumph of the day.

Gui. So slight a victory required not me: 
I but sat still, and nodded, like a god,
My world into creation; now ’tis time
To walk abroad, and carelessly survey
How the dull matter does the form obey. [Exit with MALICORN.