DUMAINE. My noble brother murthered by the King, Oh what may I doe, to revenge thy death?
The Kings alone, it cannot satisfie.
Sweet Duke of Guise our prop to leane upon, Now thou art dead, heere is no stay for us:
I am thy brother, and ile revenge thy death, And roote Valois's line from forth of France, And beate proud Burbon to his native home, That basely seekes to joyne with such a King, Whose murderous thoughts will be his overthrow.
Hee wild the Governour of Orleance in his name, That I with speed should have beene put to death.
But thats prevented, for to end his life, And all those traitors to the Church of Rome, That durst attempt to murder noble Guise.
Enter the Frier.
FRIER. My Lord, I come to bring you newes, that your brother the Cardinall of Loraine by the Kings consent is lately strangled unto death.
DUMAINE. My brother Cardenall slaine and I alive?
O wordes of power to kill a thousand men.
Come let us away and leavy men, Tis warre that must asswage the tyrantes pride.
FRIER. My Lord, heare me but speak.
I am a Frier of the order of the Jacobyns, that for my conscience sake will kill the King.
DUMAINE. But what doth move thee above the rest to doe the deed?
FRIER. O my Lord, I have beene a great sinner in my dayes, and the deed is meritorious.
DUMAINE. But how wilt thou get opportunitye?
FRIER. Tush my Lord, let me alone for that.
DUMAINE. Frier come with me, We will goe talke more of this within.
Exeunt.
Sound Drumme and Trumpets, and enter the King of France, and Navarre, Epernoune, Bartus, Pleshe and Souldiers.
KING. Brother of Navarre, I sorrow much, That ever I was prov'd your enemy, And that the sweet and princely minde you beare, Was ever troubled with injurious warres:
I vow as I am lawfull King of France, To recompence your reconciled love, With all the honors and affections, That ever I vouchsafte my dearest freends.
NAVARRE. It is enough if that Navarre may be Esteemed faithfull to the King of France:
Whose service he may still commaund to death.
KING. Thankes to my Kingly Brother of Navarre.
Then there wee'l lye before Lutetia's walles, Girting this strumpet Cittie with our siege, Till surfeiting with our afflicting armes, She cast her hatefull stomack to the earth.
Enter a Messenger.
MESSENGER. And it please your Majestie heere is a Frier of the order of the Jacobins, sent from the President of Paris, that craves accesse unto your grace.
KING. Let him come in.
Enter Frier with a Letter.
EPERNOUNE. I like not this Friers look.
Twere not amisse my Lord, if he were searcht.
KING. Sweete Epernoune, our Friers are holy men, And will not offer violence to their King, For all the wealth and treasure of the world.
Frier, thou dost acknowledge me thy King?
FRIER. I my good Lord, and will dye therein.
KING. Then come thou neer, and tell what newes thou bringst.
FRIER. My Lord, The President of Paris greetes your grace, And sends his dutie by these speedye lines, Humblye craving your gracious reply.
KING. Ile read them Frier, and then Ile answere thee.
FRIER. Sancte Jacobus, now have mercye on me.
He stabs the King with a knife as he readeth the letter, and then the King getteth the knife and killes him.
EPERNOUNE. O my Lord, let him live a while.
KING. No, let the villaine dye, and feele in hell, Just torments for his trechery.
NAVARRE. What, is your highnes hurt?
KING. Yes Navarre, but not to death I hope.
NAVARRE. God shield your grace from such a sodaine death:
