mock the meekness of an injured king. [_To Qu. M._
Why did not you, who gave me part of life,
Infuse my father stronger in my veins?
But when you kept me cooped within your womb,
You palled his generous blood with the dull mixture
Of your Italian food, and milked slow arts
Of womanish tameness in my infant mouth.
Why stood I stupid else, and missed a blow,
Which heaven and daring folly made so fair?

_Qu. M._ I still maintain, 'twas wisely done to spare him.

_Gril._ A pox on this unseasonable wisdom!
He was a fool to come; if so, then they,
Who let him go, were somewhat.

_King._ The event, the event will shew us what we were;
For, like a blazing meteor hence he shot,
And drew a sweeping fiery train along.--
O Paris, Paris, once my seat of triumph,
But now the scene of all thy king's misfortunes;
Ungrateful, perjured, and disloyal town,
Which by my royal presence I have warmed
So long, that now the serpent hisses out,
And shakes his forked tongue at majesty,
While I--

_Qu. M._ While you lose time in idle talk,
And use no means for safety and prevention.

_King._ What can I do? O mother, Abbot, Grillon!
All dumb! nay, then 'tis plain, my cause is desperate.
Such an overwhelming ill makes grief a fool,
As if redress were past.

_Gril._ I'll go to the next sheriff,
And beg the first reversion of a rope:
Dispatch is all my business; I'll hang for you.

_Abb._ 'Tis not so bad, as vainly you surmise;
Some space there is, some little space, some steps
Betwixt our fate and us: our foes are powerful,
But yet not armed, nor marshalled into order;
Believe it, sir, the Guise will not attempt,
Till he have rolled his snow-ball to a heap.

_King._ So then, my lord, we're a day off from death:
What shall to-morrow do?

_Abb._ To-morrow, sir,
If hours between slide not too idly by,
You may be master of their destiny,
Who now dispose so loftily of yours.
Not far without the suburbs there are quartered
Three thousand Swiss, and two French regiments.

_King._ Would they were here, and I were at their head!

_Qu. M._ Send Mareschal Byron to lead them up.

_King._ It shall be so: by heaven there's life in this!
The wrack of clouds is driving on the winds,
And shews a break of sunshine--
Go Grillon, give my orders to Byron,
And see your soldiers well disposed within,
For safeguard of the Louvre.

_Qu. M._ One thing more:
The Guise (his business yet not fully ripe,)
Will treat, at least, for