tretched along,
Your love, O Guise, and your ambition gone,
That venerable aspect pale with death,
I must conclude you merited your end.

_Gui._ You must, you will, and smile upon my murder.

_Mar._ Therefore, if you are conscious of a breach,
Confess it to me. Lead me to the king;
He has promised me to conquer his revenge,
And place you next him; therefore, if you're right,
Make me not fear it by asseverations,
But speak your heart, and O resolve me truly!

_Gui._ Madam, I've thought, and trust you with my soul.
You saw but now my parting with my brother,
The prelate too of Lyons; it was debated
Warmly against me, that I should go on.

_Mar._ Did I not tell you, sir?

_Gui._ True; but in spite
Of those imperial arguments they urged,
I was not to be worked from second thought:
There we broke off; and mark me, if I live,
You are the saint that makes a convert of me.

_Mar._ Go then:--O heaven! Why must I still suspect you?
Why heaves my heart, and overflow my eyes?
Yet if you live, O Guise,--there, there's the cause,--
I never shall converse, nor see you more.

_Gui._ O say not so, for once again I'll see you.
Were you this very night to lodge with angels,
Yet say not never; for I hope by virtue
To merit heaven, and wed you late in glory.

_Mar._ This night, my lord, I'm a recluse for ever.

_Gui._ Ha! stay till morning: tapers are too dim;
Stay till the sun rises to salute you;
Stay till I lead you to that dismal den
Of virgins buried quick, and stay for ever.

_Mar._ Alas! your suit is vain, for I have vowed it:
Nor was there any other way to clear
The imputed stains of my suspected honour.

_Gui._ Hear me a word!--one sigh, one tear, at parting,
And one last look; for, O my earthly saint,
I see your face pale as the cherubins'
At Adam's fall.

_Mar._ O heaven! I now confess,
My heart bleeds for thee, Guise.

_Gui._ Why, madam, why?

_Mar._ Because by this disorder,
And that sad fate that bodes upon your brow,
I do believe you love me more than glory.

_Gui._ Without an oath I do; therefore have mercy,
And think not death could make me tremble thus;
Be pitiful to those infirmities
Which thus unman me; stay till the council's over;
If you are pleased to grant an hour or two
To my last prayer, I'll thank you as my saint:
If you refuse me, madam, I'll not murmur.

_Mar._ Alas, my Guise!--O heaven, what did I say?
But take it, take it; if it be too kind,
Honour may pardon it, since 'tis m