The works of John Dryden, now first collected in eighteen volumes. Volume 07

ACT V.
SCENE I.—The Castle of Blois.

Enter GRILLON, and ALPHONSO CORSO.

Gril. Welcome, colonel, welcome to Blois.

Alph. Since last we parted at the barricadoes,
The world's turned upside down.

Gril. No, 'faith, 'tis better now, 'tis downside up:
Our part o'the wheel is rising, though but slowly.

Alph. Who looked for an assembly of the States?

Gril. When the king was escaped from Paris, and got out of the toils, 'twas time for the Guise to take them down, and pitch others: that is, to treat for the calling of a parliament, where, being sure of the major part, he might get by law what he had missed by force.

Alph. But why should the king assemble the States, to satisfy the Guise, after so many affronts?

Gril. For the same reason, that a man in a duel says he has received satisfaction, when he is first wounded, and afterwards disarmed.

Alph. But why this parliament at Blois, and not at Paris?

Gril. Because no barricadoes have been made at Blois. This Blois is a very little town, and the king can draw it after him; but Paris is a damned unwieldy bulk; and when the preachers draw against the king, a parson in a pulpit is a devilish fore-horse. Besides, I found in that insurrection what dangerous beasts these townsmen are; I tell you, colonel, a man had better deal with ten of their wives, than with one zealous citizen: O your inspired cuckold is most implacable.

Alph. Is there any seeming kindness between the king and the duke of Guise?

Alph. Yet I have heard he made a sharp reflecting speech upon their party at the opening of the parliament, admonished men of their duties, pardoned what was past, but seemed to threaten vengeance if they persisted for the future.

Gril. Yes; and then they all took the sacrament together: he promising to unite himself to them, and they to obey him, according to the laws; yet the very next morning they went on, in pursuance of their old commonwealth designs, as violently as ever.

Alph. Now, I am dull enough to think they have broken their oath.

Gril. Ay, but you are but one private man, and they are the three States; and if they vote that they have not broken their oaths, who is to be judge?

Alph. There's one above.

Enter King and Marmoutiere.

King. Grillon, be near me,
There's something for my service to be done,
Your orders will be sudden; now, withdraw.

Gril. [Aside.] Well, I dare trust my niece, even though she comes of my own family; but if she cuckolds my good opinion of her honesty, there's a whole sex fallen under a general rule, without one exception.
[Exeunt Gril. and Alph.

Mar. You bid my uncle wait you.

King. Yes.

Mar. This hour?

King. I think it was.

Mar. Something of moment hangs upon this hour.

King. Not more on this, than on the next, and next.
My time is all ta'en up on usury;
I never am beforehand with my hours,
But every one has work before it comes.

King. And you desire their meaning?

Mar. I dare not ask, and yet, perhaps, may guess.

King. 'Tis searching there where heaven can only pry,
Not man, who knows not man but by surmise;
Nor devils, nor angels of a purer mould,
Can trace the winding labyrinths of thought.
I tell thee, Marmoutiere, I never speak,
Not when alone, for fear some fiend should hear,
And blab my secrets out.

Mar. You hate the Guise.

King. True, I did hate him.

Mar. And you hate him still.

King. I am reconciled.

Mar. Your spirit is too high,
Great souls forgive not injuries, till time
Has put their enemies into their power,
That they may shew, forgiveness is their own;
For else, 'tis fear to punish, that forgives;
The coward, not the king.

King. He has submitted.

Mar. In show; for in effect he still insults.

King. Well, kings must bear sometimes.

Mar. They must, till they can shake their burden off;
And that's, I think, your aim.

King. Mistaken still:
All favours, all preferments, pass through them;
I'm pliant, and they mould me as they please.

Mar. These are your arts, to make them more secure;
Just so your brother used the admiral.
Brothers may think, and act like brothers too.

King. What said you, ha! what mean you, Marmoutiere?

King. This is no vigil of St Bartholomew,
Nor is Blois Paris.

Mar. 'Tis an open town.

King. What then?

Mar. Where you are strongest.

King. Well, what then?

Mar. No more; but you have power, and are provoked.

King. O, thou hast set thy foot upon a snake!
Get quickly off, or it will sting thee dead.

Mar. Can I unknow it?

King. No, but keep it secret.

Mar. Think, sir, your thoughts are still as much your own,
As when you kept the key of your own breast;
But since you let me in, I find it filled
With death and horror: you would murder Guise.

King. Murder! what, murder! use a softer word,
And call it sovereign justice.

Mar. Would I could!
But justice bears the godlike shape of law,
And law requires defence, and equal plea
Betwixt the offender, and the righteous judge.

King. Yes, when the offender can be judged by laws:
But when his greatness overturns the scales,
Then kings are justice in the last appeal,
And, forced by strong necessity, may strike;
In which, indeed, they assert the public good,
And, like sworn surgeons, lop the gangrened limb:
Unpleasant, wholesome, work.

Mar. If this be needful.

Mar. I did; but yet—

King. What means, but yet? 'tis evidence so full,
If the last trumpet sounded in my ears,
Undaunted I should meet the saints half way,
And in the face of heaven maintain the fact.

Mar. Maintain it then to heaven, but not to me.
Do you love me?

King. Can you doubt it?

Mar. Yes, I can doubt it, if you can deny;
Love begs once more this great offender's life.
Can you forgive the man you justly hate,
That hazards both your life and crown to spare him?
One, whom you may suspect I more than pity,—
For I would have you see, that what I ask,
I know, is wondrous difficult to grant,—
Can you be thus extravagantly good?

King. What then? for I begin to fear my firmness,
And doubt the soft destruction of your tongue.

Mar. Then, in return, I swear to heaven and you,
To give you all the preference of my soul;
No rebel rival to disturb you there;
Let him but live, that he may be my convert! [King walks awhile, then wipes his eyes, and speaks.

King. You've conquered; all that's past shall be forgiven.
My lavish love has made a lavish grant;
But know, this act of grace shall be my last.
Let him repent, yes, let him well repent;
Let him desist, and tempt revenge no further:
For, by yon heaven, that's conscious of his crimes,
I will no more by mercy be betrayed.

The deputies are entering; you must leave me.
Thus, tyrant business all my hours usurps,
And makes me live for others.

Mar. Now heaven reward you with a prosperous reign,
And grant, you never may be good in vain![Exit.

Enter Deputies of the Three States: Cardinal of Guise, and Archbishop of Lyons, at the head of them.

King. Well, my good lords, what matters of importance
Employed the States this morning?

Arch. One high point
Was warmly canvassed in the Commons House,
And will be soon resolved.

King. What was't?

Card. Succession.

King. That's one high point indeed, but not to be
So warmly canvassed, or so soon resolved.

Card. Things necessary must sometimes be sudden.

King. No sudden danger threatens you, my lord.

Arch. What may be sudden, must be counted so.
We hope and wish your life; but yours and ours
Are in the hand of heaven.

King. My lord, they are;
Yet, in a natural way, I may live long,
If heaven, and you my loyal subjects, please.

Arch. But since good princes, like your majesty,
Take care of dangers merely possible,
Which may concern their subjects, whose they are,
And for whom kings are made—

Card. To cut things short,
The Commons will decree, to exclude Navarre
From the succession of the realm of France.

King. Decree, my lord! What! one estate decree?
Where then are the other two, and what am I?
The government is cast up somewhat short,
The clergy and nobility cashiered,
Five hundred popular figures on a row,
And I myself, that am, or should be, king,
An o'ergrown cypher set before the sum:
What reasons urge our sovereigns for the exclusion?

Arch. He stands suspected, sir, of heresy.

King. Has he been called to make his just defence?

Card. That needs not, for 'tis known.

King. To whom?

Card. The Commons.

King. What is't those gods, the Commons, do not know?
But heresy, you churchmen teach us vulgar,
Supposes obstinate, and stiff persisting
In errors proved, long admonitions made,
And all rejected: Has this course been used?

Arch. We grant it has not; but—

King. Nay, give me leave,—
I urge, from your own grant, it has not been.
If then, in process of a petty sum,
Both parties having not been fully heard,
No sentence can be given;
Much less in the succession of a crown,
Which, after my decease, by right inherent,
Devolves upon my brother of Navarre.

Card. The right of souls is still to be preferred;
Religion must not suffer for a claim.

Arch. Then heresy's entailed upon the throne.

King. You would entail confusion, wars, and slaughters:
Those ills are certain; what you name, contingent.
I know my brother's nature; 'tis sincere,
Above deceit, no crookedness of thought;
Says what he means, and what he says performs;
Brave, but not rash; successful, but not proud;
So much acknowledging, that he's uneasy,
Till every petty service be o'erpaid.

Arch. Some say, revengeful.

King. Some then libel him;
But that's what both of us have learned to bear.
He can forgive, but you disdain forgiveness.
Your chiefs are they no libel must profane;
Honour's a sacred thing in all but kings;
But when your rhymes assassinate our fame,
You hug your nauseous, blundering ballad-wits,
And pay them, as if nonsense were a merit,
If it can mean but treason.

Arch. Sir, we have many arguments to urge—

King. And I have more to answer: Let them know,
My royal brother of Navarre shall stand
Secure by right, by merit, and my love.
God, and good men, will never fail his cause,
And all the bad shall be constrained by laws.

Arch. Since gentle means to exclude Navarre are vain,
To-morrow, in the States, 'twill be proposed,
To make the duke of Guise lieutenant-general;
Which power, most graciously confirmed by you,
Will stop this headlong torrent of succession,
That bears religion, laws, and all before it.
In hope you'll not oppose what must be done,
We wish you, sir, a long and prosperous reign. [Exeunt all but the King.

Enter Grillon to him.

Gril. 'Tis just the appointed hour you bid me wait.

King. So just, as if thou wert inspired to come;
As if the guardian-angel of my throne,
Who had o'erslept himself so many years,
Just now was roused, and brought thee to my rescue.

Gril. I hear the Guise will be lieutenant-general.

King. And canst thou suffer it?

Gril. Nay, if you will suffer it, then well may I. If kings will be so civil to their subjects, to give up all things tamely, they first turn rebels to themselves, and that's a fair example for their friends. 'Slife, sir, 'tis a dangerous matter to be loyal on the wrong side, to serve my prince in spite of him; if you'll be a royalist yourself, there are millions of honest men will fight for you; but if you will not, there are few will hang for you.

King. No more: I am resolved.
The course of things can be with-held no longer
From breaking forth to their appointed end:
My vengeance, ripened in the womb of time,
Presses for birth, and longs to be disclosed.
Grillon, the Guise is doomed to sudden death:
The sword must end him:—has not thine an edge?

Gril. Yes, and a point too; I'll challenge him.

King. I bid thee kill him.[Walking.

Gril. So I mean to do.

Gril. Now I understand you; I should murder him:
I am your soldier, sir, but not your hangman.

King. Dost thou not hate him?

Gril. Yes.

King. Hast thou not said,
That he deserves it?

Gril. Yes; but how have I
Deserved to do a murder?

King. 'Tis no murder;
'Tis sovereign justice, urged from self-defence.

Gril. 'Tis all confest, and yet I dare not do't.

King. Go; thou art a coward.

Gril. You are my king.

King. Thou say'st, thou dar'st not kill him.

Gril. Were I a coward, I had been a villain,
And then I durst have done't.

King. Thou hast done worse, in thy long course of arms.
Hast thou ne'er killed a man?

Gril. Yes, when a man would have killed me.

King. Hast thou not plundered from the helpless poor?
Snatched from the sweating labourer his food?

Gril. Sir, I have eaten and drank in my own defence, when I was hungry and thirsty; I have plundered, when you have not paid me; I have been content with a farmer's daughter, when a better whore was not to be had. As for cutting off a traitor, I'll execute him lawfully in my own function, when I meet him in the field; but for your chamber-practice, that's not my talent.

King. Is my revenge unjust, or tyrannous?
Heaven knows I love not blood.

King. Give me thy hand; I love thee not the worse:
Make much of honour, 'tis a soldier's conscience.
Thou shalt not do this act; thou art even too good;
But keep my secret, for that's conscience too.

Gril. When I disclose it, think I am a coward.

King. No more of that, I know thou art not one.
Call Lognac hither straight, and St Malin;
Bid Larchant find some unsuspected means,
To keep guards doubled at the council-door,
That none pass in or out, but those I call:
The rest I'll think on further; so farewell.

SCENE II.—Scene opens, and discovers Men and Women at a Banquet, Malicorn standing by.

Mal. This is the solemn annual feast I keep,
As this day twelve year, on this very hour,
I signed the contract for my soul with hell.
I bartered it for honours, wealth, and pleasure,
Three things which mortal men do covet most;
And 'faith, I over-sold it to the fiend:
What, one-and-twenty years, nine yet to come!
How can a soul be worth so much to devils?
O how I hug myself, to out-wit these fools of hell!
And yet a sudden damp, I know not why,
Has seized my spirits, and, like a heavy weight,
Hangs on their active springs. I want a song
To rouse me; my blood freezes.—Music there.

After a Song and Dance, loud knocking at the Door,

Enter a Servant.

Mal. What noise is that?

Serv. An ill-looked surly man,
With a hoarse voice, says he must speak with you.

Re-enter Servant.

Serv. He says you have, and must have, business with him.
Come out, or he'll come in, and spoil your mirth.

Mal. I will not.

How dar'st thou interrupt my softer hours?
By heaven, I'll ram thee in some knotted oak,
Where thou shalt sigh, and groan to whistling winds,
Upon the lonely plain.
Or I'll confine thee deep in the red sea, groveling on the sands,
Ten thousand billows rolling o'er thy head.

Mel. Hoh, hoh, hoh!

Mal. Laughest thou, malicious fiend?
I'll ope my book of bloody characters,
Shall rumple up thy tender airy limbs,
Like parchment in a flame.

Mel. Thou can'st not do it.
Behold this hour-glass.

Mal. Well, and what of that?

Mel. Seest thou these ebbing sands?
They run for thee, and when their race is run,
Thy lungs, the bellows of thy mortal breath,
Shall sink for ever down, and heave no more.

Mal. What, resty, fiend?
Nine years thou hast to serve.

Mel. Not full nine minutes.

Mal. Thou liest; look on thy bond, and view the date.

Mel. Then, wilt thou stand to that without appeal?

Mal.. I will, so help me heaven!

Mel. So take thee hell.[Gives him the bond.
There, fool; behold who lies, the devil, or thou?

Mal. Ha! one-and-twenty years are shrunk to twelve!
Do my eyes dazzle?

Mal. There's equity in heaven for this, a cheat.

Mel. Fool, thou hast quitted thy appeal to heaven,
To stand to this.

Mal. Then I am lost for ever!

Mel. Thou art.

Mal. O why was I not warned before?

Mel. Yes, to repent; then thou hadst cheated me.

Mal. Add but a day, but half a day, an hour:
For sixty minutes, I'll forgive nine years.

Mel. No, not a moment's thought beyond my time.
Dispatch; 'tis much below me to attend
For one poor single fare.

Mal. So pitiless?
But yet I may command thee, and I will:
I love the Guise, even with my latest breath,
Beyond my soul, and my lost hopes of heaven:
I charge thee, by my short-lived power, disclose
What fate attends my master.

Mel. If he goes
To council when he next is called, he dies.

Mal. Who waits?

Enter Servant.

Go, give my lord my last adieu;
Say, I shall never see his eyes again;
But if he goes, when next he's called, to council,
Bid him believe my latest breath, he dies.—[Exit Serv.
The sands run yet.—O do not shake the glass!— [Devil shakes the glass.
I shall be thine too soon!—Could I repent!—
Heaven's not confined to moments.—Mercy, mercy!

Mel. Then I have hope.

Mal. Not so; I preached on purpose
To make thee lose this moment of thy prayer.
Thy sand creeps low; despair, despair, despair!

Mal. Where am I now? upon the brink of life,
The gulph before me, devils to push me on,
And heaven behind me closing all its doors.
A thousand years for every hour I've past,
O could I 'scape so cheap! but ever, ever!
Still to begin an endless round of woes,
To be renewed for pains, and last for hell!
Yet can pains last, when bodies cannot last?
Can earthy substance endless flames endure?
Or, when one body wears and flits away,
Do souls thrust forth another crust of clay,
To fence and guard their tender forms from fire?
I feel my heart-strings rend!—I'm here,—I'm gone!
Thus men, too careless of their future state,
Dispute, know nothing, and believe too late. [A flash of lightning, they sink together.

SCENE III.—Enter Duke of Guise; Cardinal, and Aumale.

Aum. 'Tis good to lean on the securer side:
When life depends, the mighty stake is such,
Fools fear too little, and they dare too much.

Enter Arch-Bishop.

Gui. You have prevailed, I will not go to council.
I have provoked my sovereign past a pardon,
It but remains to doubt if he dare kill me:
Then if he dares but to be just, I die.
'Tis too much odds against me; I'll depart,
And finish greatness at some safer time.

Arch. By heaven, 'tis Harry's plot to fright you hence,
That, coward-like, you might forsake your friends.

Gui. The devil foretold it dying Malicorn.

Arch. Yes, some court-devil, no doubt:
If you depart, consider, good my lord,
You are the master-spring that moves our fabric,
Which once removed, our motion is no more.
Without your presence, which buoys up our hearts,
The League will sink beneath a royal name;
The inevitable yoke prepared for kings
Will soon be shaken off; things done, repealed;
And things undone, past future means to do.

Card. I know not; I begin to taste his reasons.

Arch. Nay, were the danger certain of your stay,
An act so mean would lose you all your friends,
And leave you single to the tyrant's rage:
Then better 'tis to hazard life alone,
Than life, and friends, and reputation too.

Gui. Since more I am confirmed, I'll stand the shock.
Where'er he dares to call, I dare to go.
My friends are many, faithful, and united;
He will not venture on so rash a deed:
And now, I wonder I should fear that force,
Which I have used to conquer and contemn.

Arch. Your tempter comes, perhaps, to turn the scale,
And warn you not to go.

Gui. O fear her not,
I will be there.[Exeunt Arch-Bishop and Cardinal.
What can she mean?—repent?
Or is it cast betwixt the king and her
To sound me? come what will, it warms my heart
With secret joy, which these my ominous statesmen
Left dead within me;—ha! she turns away.

Mar. Do you not wonder at this visit, sir?

Gui. No, madam, I at last have gained the point
Of mightiest minds, to wonder now at nothing.

Mar. Believe me, Guise, 'twere gallantly resolved,
If you could carry it on the inside too.
Why came that sigh uncalled? For love of me,
Partly, perhaps; but more for thirst of glory,
Which now again dilates itself in smiles,
As if you scorned that I should know your purpose.

Gui. I change, 'tis true, because I love you still;
Love you, O heaven, even in my own despite;
I tell you all, even at that very moment,
I know you straight betray me to the king.

Mar. O Guise, I never did; but, sir, I come
To tell you, I must never see you more.

Gui. The king's at Blois, and you have reason for it;
Therefore, what am I to expect from pity,—
From yours, I mean,—when you behold me slain?

Mar. First answer me, and then I'll speak my heart.
Have you, O Guise, since your last solemn oath,
Stood firm to what you swore? Be plain, my lord,
Or run it o'er a while, because again
I tell you, I must never see you more.

Mar. Keep your obedience,—by the saints, you live.

Gui. Then mark; 'tis judged by heads grown white in council,
This very day he means to cut me off.

Mar. By heaven, then you're forsworn; you've broke your vows.

Gui. By you, the justice of the earth, I have not.

Mar. By you, dissembler of the world, you have.
I know the king.

Gui. I do believe you, madam.

Mar. I have tried you both.

Gui. Not me, the king you mean.

Mar. Do these o'erboiling answers suit the Guise?
But go to council, sir, there shew your truth;
If you are innocent, you're safe; but O,
If I should chance to see you stretched 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?

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.

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 my last.

Gui. O let me crawl, vile as I am, and kiss
Your sacred robe.—Is't possible! your hand! [She gives him her hand.
O that it were my last expiring moment,
For I shall never taste the like again.

Mar. Farewell, my proselyte! your better genius
Watch your ambition.

Gui. I have none but you:
Must I ne'er see you more?

Mar. I have sworn you must not:
Which thought thus roots me here, melts my resolves,[Weeps.
And makes me loiter when the angels call me.

Gui. O ye celestial dews! O paradise!
O heaven! O joys, ne'er to be tasted more!

Mar. Nay, take a little more: cold Marmoutiere,
The temperate, devoted Marmoutiere
Is gone,—a last embrace I must bequeath you.

Gui. And O let me return it with another!

Mar. Farewell for ever; ah, Guise, though now we part,
In the bright orbs, prepared us by our fates,
Our souls shall meet,—farewell!—and Io's sing above,
Where no ambition, nor state-crime, the happier spirits prove,
But all are blest, and all enjoy an everlasting love. [Exit Marmoutiere.

Guise solus.

Enter a Page.

Page. My lord, your brother and the arch-bishop wait you.

Gui. I come;—down, devil!—ha! must I stumble too?
Away, ye dreams! what if it thundered now,
Or if a raven crossed me in my way?
Or now it comes, because last night I dreamt
The council-hall was hung with crimson round,
And all the ceiling plaistered o'er with black.
No more!—Blue fires, and ye dull rolling lakes,
Fathomless caves, ye dungeons of old night,
Phantoms, be gone! if I must die, I'll fall
True politician, and defy you all.[Exit.

SCENE II.—The Court before the Council-hall.

Grillon, Larchant, Soldiers placed, People crowding

Gril. Are your guards doubled, captain?

Larch. Sir, they are.

Gril. When the Guise comes, remember your petition.—
Make way there for his eminence; give back.—
Your eminence comes late.

Enter two Cardinals, Counsellors, the Cardinal of Guise, Arch-bishop of Lyons, last the Guise.

Gui. Well, colonel, are we friends?

Gril. 'Faith, I think not.

Gril. No, for that gives a heart.

Gui. Yet we shall clasp in heaven.

Gril. By heaven, we shall not,
Unless it be with gripes.

Gui. True Grillon still.

Larch. My lord.

Gui. Ha! captain, you are well attended:
If I mistake not, sir, your number's doubled.

Card. Ha! he's fallen, chafe him. He comes again.

Gui. I beg your pardons; vapours, no more.

Guise within.] Murderers, villains!

Arch. I hear your brother's voice; run to the door.

Card. and Arch. run to the door.

Card. Help, help, the Guise is murdered!

Arch. Help, help!

Gril. Cease your vain cries, you are the king's prisoners;—
Take them, Dugast, into your custody.

Card. We must obey, my lord, for heaven calls us. [Exeunt.

The Scene draws, behind it a Traverse.

The Guise is assaulted by eight. They stab him in all parts, but most in the head.

The King rises from his Chair, comes forward with his Cabinet-council.

King. Open the closet, and let in the council;
Bid Dugast execute the cardinal;
Seize all the factious leaders, as I ordered,
And every one be answered, on your lives.

Enter Queen-Mother followed by the Counsellors.

O, madam, you are welcome; how goes your health?

Qu. M. A little mended, sir.—What have you done?

King. That which has made me king of France; for there
The king of Paris at your feet lies dead.

King. [Looking upon Guise.]
Be witness, heaven, I gave him treble warning!
He's gone—no more.—Disperse, and think upon it.
Beware my sword, which, if I once unsheath,
By all the reverence due to thrones and crowns,
Nought shall atone the vows of speedy justice,
Till fate to ruin every traitor brings,
That dares the vengeance of indulgent kings.[Exuent.