Lord, and he that smelles but to them, dyes. GUISE. Then thou remainest resolute. POTHECARIE. I am my Lord, in what your grace commaundes till death. GUISE. Thankes my good freend, I wil requite thy love. Goe then, present them to the Queene Navarre:    For she is that huge blemish in our eye, That makes these upstart heresies in Fraunce:    Be gone my freend, present them to her straite. Souldyer.—          Exit Pothecaier. Enter a Souldier. SOULDIER. My Lord. GUISE. Now come thou forth and play thy tragick part, Stand in some window opening neere the street, And when thou seest the Admirall ride by, Discharge thy musket and perfourme his death:    And then Ile guerdon thee with store of crownes. SOULDIER. I will my Lord. Exit Souldier. GUISE. Now Guise, begin those deepe ingendred thoughts To burst abroad, those never dying flames, Which cannot be extinguisht but by bloud. Oft have I leveld, and at last have learnd, That perill is the cheefest way to happines, And resolution honors fairest aime. What glory is there in a common good, That hanges for every peasant to atchive? That like I best that flyes beyond my reach. Set me to scale the high Peramides, And thereon set the Diadem of Fraunce, Ile either rend it with my nayles to naught, Or mount the top with my aspiring winges, Although my downfall be the deepest hell. For this, I wake, when others think I sleepe, For this, I waite, that scorn attendance else:    For this, my quenchles thirst whereon I builde, Hath often pleaded kindred to the King. For this, this head, this heart, this hand and sworde, Contrive, imagine and fully execute Matters of importe, aimed at by many, Yet understoode by none. For this, hath heaven engendred me of earth, For this, the earth sustaines my bodies weight, And with this wait Ile counterpoise a Crowne, Or with seditions weary all the worlde:    For this, from Spaine the stately Catholic Sends Indian golde to coyne me French ecues:    For this have I a largesse from the Pope, A pension and a dispensation too:    And by that priviledge to worke upon, My policye hath framde religion. Religion: O Diabole. Fye, I am ashamde, how ever that I seeme, To think a word of such a simple sound, Of so great matter should be made the ground. The gentle King whose pleasure uncontrolde, Weakneth his body, and will waste his Realme, If I repaire not what he ruinates:    Him as a childe I dayly winne with words, So that for proofe, he barely beares the name:    I execute, and he sustaines the blame. The Mother Queene workes wonders for my sake, And in my love entombes the hope of Fraunce:    Rifling the 

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