Gui. Yes; we are all involved, as heads, or parties; Dipt in the noisy crime of state, called treason; And traitors we must be, to king, or country.

Buss. Why then my choice is made.

Pol. And mine.

Omn. And all.

Card. Heaven is itself head of the Holy League; And all the saints are cov’nanters and Guisards.

Gui. What say you, curate?

Cur. I hope well, my lord.

Card. That is, he hopes you mean to make him abbot,
And he deserves your care of his preferment;
For all his prayers are curses on the government,
And all his sermons libels on the king;
In short, a pious, hearty, factious priest.

Gui. All that are here, my friends, shall share my fortunes: 
There’s spoil, preferments, wealth enough in France;
’Tis but deserve, and have.  The Spanish king
Consigns me fifty thousand crowns a-week
To raise, and to foment a civil war. 
’Tis true, a pension, from a foreign prince,
Sounds treason in the letter of the law,
But good intentions justify the deed.

Cur. Heaven’s good; the cause is good; the money’s good; No matter whence it comes.

Buss. Our city-bands are twenty thousand strong,
Well-disciplined, well-armed, well-seasoned traitors,
Thick-rinded heads, that leave no room for kernel;
Shop-consciences, of proof against an oath,
Preached up, and ready tined for a rebellion[1].

Gui. Why then the noble plot is fit for birth;
And labouring France cries out for midwife hands. 
We missed surprising of the king at Blois,
When last the states were held:  ’twas oversight;
Beware we make not such another blot.

Card. This holy time of Lent we have him sure;
He goes unguarded, mixed with whipping friars. 
In that procession, he’s more fit for heaven: 
What hinders us to seize the royal penitent,
And close him in a cloister?

Cur. Or dispatch him; I love to make all sure.

Gui. No; guard him safe;
Thin diet will do well; ’twill starve him into reason,
’Till he exclude his brother of Navarre,
And graft succession on a worthier choice. 
To favour this, five hundred men in arms
Shall stand prepared, to enter at your call,
And speed the work; St Martin’s gate was named;
But the sheriff Conty, who commands that ward,
Refused me passage there.

Buss. I know that Conty; A snivelling, conscientious, loyal rogue; He’ll peach, and ruin all.

Card. Give out he’s arbitrary, a Navarist,
A heretic; discredit him betimes,
And make his witness void.

Cur. I’ll swear him guilty.  I swallow oaths as easy as snap-dragon, Mock-fire that never burns.

Gui. Then, Bussy, be it your care to admit my troops,
At Port St Honore:  [Rises.] Night wears apace,
And day-light must not peep on dark designs. 
I will myself to court, pay formal duty,
Take leave, and to my government retire;
Impatient to be soon recalled, to see
The king imprisoned, and the nation free[2]. [Exeunt.