shew of loyalty;
Let him be met with the same arts he brings.

_King._ I know, he'll make exorbitant demands,
But here your part of me will come in play;
The Italian soul shall teach me how to sooth:
Even Jove must flatter with an empty hand,
'Tis time to thunder, when he gripes the brand. [_Exeunt._

SCENE _II.--A Night Scene._

_Enter_ MALICORN _solus._

_Mal._ Thus far the cause of God; but God's or devil's,--
I mean my master's cause, and mine,--succeed,
What shall the Guise do next? [_A flash of lightning._

_Enter the spirit_ MELANAX.

_Mel._ First seize the king, and after murder him.

_Mal._ Officious fiend, thou comest uncalled to-night.

_Mel._ Always uncalled, and still at hand for mischief.

_Mal._ But why in this fanatic habit, devil?
Thou look'st like one that preaches to the crowd;
Gospel is in thy face, and outward garb,
And treason on thy tongue.

_Mel._ Thou hast me right:
Ten thousand devils more are in this habit;
Saintship and zeal are still our best disguise:
We mix unknown with the hot thoughtless crowd,
And quoting scriptures, (which too well we know,)
With impious glosses ban the holy text,
And make it speak rebellion, schism, and murder;
So turn the arms of heaven against itself.

_Mal._ What makes the curate of St. Eustace here?

_Mel._ Thou art mistaken, master; 'tis not he,
But 'tis a zealous, godly, canting devil,
Who has assumed the churchman's lucky shape,
To talk the crowd to madness and rebellion.

_Mal._ O true enthusiastic devil, true,--
(For lying is thy nature, even to me,)
Did'st thou not tell me, if my lord, the Guise,
Entered the court, his head should then lie low?
That was a lie; he went, and is returned.

_Mel._ 'Tis false; I said, _perhaps_ it should lie low;
And, but I chilled the blood in Henry's veins,
And crammed a thousand ghastly, frightful thoughts,
Nay, thrust them foremost in his labouring brain,
Even so it would have been.

_Mal._ Thou hast deserved me,
And I am thine, dear devil: what do we next?

_Mel._ I said, first seize the king.

_Mal._ Suppose it done:
He's clapt within a convent, shorn a saint,
My master mounts the throne.

_Mel._ Not so fast, Malicorn;
Thy master mounts not, till the king be slain.

_Mal._ Not when deposed?

_Mel._ He cannot be deposed:
He may be killed, a violent fate attends him;
But at his birth there shone a regal star.

_Mal._ My master had a stronger.

_Mel._