Part 33

Tam. O honour'd spirit, flie into the fancie Of my offended lord; and doe not let him Beleeve what there the wicked man hath written. 110

Beh. Perswasion hath already enter'd him Beyond reflection; peace, till their departure!

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Monsieur. There is a glasse of ink where you may see How to make ready black fac'd tragedy: You now discerne, I hope, through all her paintings, 115 Her gasping wrinkles and fames sepulchres.

Guise. Think you he faines, my lord? what hold you now? Doe we maligne your wife, or honour you?

Mons. What, stricken dumb! Nay fie, lord, be not danted: Your case is common; were it ne're so rare, 120 Beare it as rarely! Now to laugh were manly. A worthy man should imitate the weather, That sings in tempests, and being cleare, is silent.

Gui. Goe home, my lord, and force your wife to write Such loving lines to D'Ambois as she us'd 125 When she desir'd his presence.

Mons. Doe, my lord, And make her name her conceal'd messenger, That close and most inennerable pander, That passeth all our studies to exquire: By whom convay the letter to her love; 130 And so you shall be sure to have him come Within the thirsty reach of your revenge. Before which, lodge an ambush in her chamber, Behind the arras, of your stoutest men All close and soundly arm'd; and let them share 135 A spirit amongst them that would serve a thousand.

Enter Pero with a letter.

Gui. Yet, stay a little: see, she sends for you.

Mons. Poore, loving lady, she'le make all good yet; Think you not so, my lord? Mont[surry] stabs Pero, and exit.

Gui. Alas, poore soule!

Mons. This was cruelly done, y'faith.

Pero. T'was nobly done; 140 And I forgive his lordship from my soule.

Mons. Then much good doo't thee, Pero! hast a letter?

Per. I hope it rather be a bitter volume Of worthy curses for your perjury.

Gui. To you, my lord.

Mons. To me? Now out upon her! 145

Gui. Let me see, my lord.

Mons. You shall presently: how fares my Pero? Enter Servant. Who's there? Take in this maid, sh'as caught a clap, And fetch my surgeon to her. Come, my lord, We'l now peruse our letter. Exeunt Mons, Guise. Lead her out.

Per. Furies rise 150 Out of the black lines, and torment his soule!

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Tam. Hath my lord slaine my woman?

Beh. No, she lives.

Fri. What shall become of us?

Beh. All I can say, Being call'd thus late, is briefe, and darkly this:-- If D'Ambois mistresse die not her white hand 155 In her forc'd bloud, he shall remaine untoucht: So, father, shall your selfe, but by your selfe. To make this augurie plainer, when the voyce Of D'Amboys shall invoke me, I will rise Shining in greater light, and shew him all 160 That will betide ye all. Meane time be wise, And curb his valour with your policies. Descendit cum suis.

Buss. Will he appeare to me when I invoke him?

Fri. He will, be sure.