Gui. Hear me a word!—­one sigh, one tear, at parting,
And one last look; for, O my earthly saint,
I see your face pale as the cherubins’
At Adam’s fall.

Mar. O heaven!  I now confess, My heart bleeds for thee, Guise.

Gui. Why, madam, why?

Mar. Because by this disorder, And that sad fate that bodes upon your brow, I do believe you love me more than glory.

Gui. Without an oath I do; therefore have mercy,
And think not death could make me tremble thus;
Be pitiful to those infirmities
Which thus unman me; stay till the council’s over;
If you are pleased to grant an hour or two
To my last prayer, I’ll thank you as my saint: 
If you refuse me, madam, I’ll not murmur.

Mar. Alas, my Guise!—­O heaven, what did I say?  But take it, take it; if it be too kind, Honour may pardon it, since ’tis my last.

Gui. O let me crawl, vile as I am, and kiss
Your sacred robe.—­Is’t possible! your hand!
                                            [She gives him her hand.
O that it were my last expiring moment,
For I shall never taste the like again.

Mar. Farewell, my proselyte! your better genius Watch your ambition.

Gui. I have none but you:  Must I ne’er see you more?

Mar. I have sworn you must not:  Which thought thus roots me here, melts my resolves, [Weeps. And makes me loiter when the angels call me.

Gui. O ye celestial dews!  O paradise!  O heaven!  O joys, ne’er to be tasted more!

Mar. Nay, take a little more:  cold Marmoutiere, The temperate, devoted Marmoutiere Is gone,—­a last embrace I must bequeath you.

Gui. And O let me return it with another!

Mar. Farewell for ever; ah, Guise, though now we part,
In the bright orbs, prepared us by our fates,
Our souls shall meet,—­farewell!—­and Io’s sing above,
Where no ambition, nor state-crime, the happier spirits prove,
But all are blest, and all enjoy an everlasting love.
          
                                        [Exit MARMOUTIERE.

  GUISE solus.

Gui. Glory, where art thou? fame, revenge, ambition,
Where are you fled? there’s ice upon my nerves;
My salt, my metal, and my spirits gone,
Palled as a slave, that’s bed-rid with an ague,
I wish my flesh were off. [Blood falls from his nose.
What now! thou bleed’st:—­
Three, and no more!—­what then? and why, what then? 
But just three drops! and why not just three drops,
As well as four or five, or five and twenty?

  Enter a Page.

Page. My lord, your brother and the arch-bishop wait you.