Arch. We grant it has not; but—
King. Nay, give me leave,—
I urge, from your own grant, it has not been.
If then, in process of a petty sum,
Both parties having not been fully heard,
No sentence can be given;
Much less in the succession of a crown,
Which, after my decease, by right inherent,
Devolves upon my brother of Navarre.
Card. The right of souls is still to be preferred; Religion must not suffer for a claim.
King. If kings may be excluded, or deposed,
Whene’er you cry religion to the crowd;
That doctrine makes rebellion orthodox,
And subjects must be traitors, to be saved.
Arch. Then heresy’s entailed upon the throne.
King. You would entail confusion, wars, and
slaughters:
Those ills are certain; what you name, contingent.
I know my brother’s nature; ’tis sincere,
Above deceit, no crookedness of thought;
Says what he means, and what he says performs;
Brave, but not rash; successful, but not proud;
So much acknowledging, that he’s uneasy,
Till every petty service be o’erpaid.
Arch. Some say, revengeful.
King. Some then libel him;
But that’s what both of us have learned to bear.
He can forgive, but you disdain forgiveness.
Your chiefs are they no libel must profane;
Honour’s a sacred thing in all but kings;
But when your rhymes assassinate our fame,
You hug your nauseous, blundering ballad-wits,
And pay them, as if nonsense were a merit,
If it can mean but treason.
Arch. Sir, we have many arguments to urge—
King. And I have more to answer: Let them
know,
My royal brother of Navarre shall stand
Secure by right, by merit, and my love.
God, and good men, will never fail his cause,
And all the bad shall be constrained by laws.
Arch. Since gentle means to exclude Navarre
are vain,
To-morrow, in the States, ’twill be proposed,
To make the duke of Guise lieutenant-general;
Which power, most graciously confirmed by you,
Will stop this headlong torrent of succession,
That bears religion, laws, and all before it.
In hope you’ll not oppose what must be done,
We wish you, sir, a long and prosperous reign.
[Exeunt
all but the King.
King. To-morrow Guise is made lieutenant-general;—
Why, then, to-morrow I no more am king.
’Tis time to push my slackened vengeance home,
To be a king, or not to be at all.
The vow that manacled my rage is loosed;
Even heaven is wearied with repeated crimes,
Till lightning flashes round, to guard the throne,
And the curbed thunder grumbles to be gone.
Enter GRILLON to him.
Gril. ’Tis just the appointed hour you bid me wait.