Massacre at Paris Part 13

Exeunt.

[Scene xxii]

Sound Drumme and Trumpets, and enter the King of France, and Navarre, Epernoune, Bartus, Pleshe and Souldiers.

KING. Brother of Navarre, I sorrow much, That ever I was prov'd your enemy, And that the sweet and princely minde you beare, Was ever troubled with injurious warres: I vow as I am lawfull King of France, To recompence your reconciled love, With all the honors and affections, That ever I vouchsafte my dearest freends.

NAVARRE. It is enough if that Navarre may be Esteemed faithfull to the King of France: Whose service he may still commaund to death.

KING. Thankes to my Kingly Brother of Navarre.

Then there wee'l lye before Lutetia's walles, Girting this strumpet Cittie with our siege, Till surfeiting with our afflicting armes, She cast her hatefull stomack to the earth.

Enter a Messenger.

MESSENGER. And it please your Majestie heere is a Frier of the order of the Jacobins, sent from the President of Paris, that craves accesse unto your grace.

KING. Let him come in.

Enter Frier with a Letter.

EPERNOUNE. I like not this Friers look.

Twere not amisse my Lord, if he were searcht.

KING. Sweete Epernoune, our Friers are holy men, And will not offer violence to their King, For all the wealth and treasure of the world.

Frier, thou dost acknowledge me thy King?

FRIER. I my good Lord, and will dye therein.

KING. Then come thou neer, and tell what newes thou bringst.

FRIER. My Lord, The President of Paris greetes your grace, And sends his dutie by these speedye lines, Humblye craving your gracious reply.

KING. Ile read them Frier, and then Ile answere thee.

FRIER. Sancte Jacobus, now have mercye on me.

He stabs the King with a knife as he readeth the letter, and then the King getteth the knife and killes him.

EPERNOUNE. O my Lord, let him live a while.

KING. No, let the villaine dye, and feele in h.e.l.l, Just torments for his trechery.

NAVARRE. What, is your highnes hurt?

KING. Yes Navarre, but not to death I hope.

NAVARRE. G.o.d s.h.i.+eld your grace from such a sodaine death: Goe call a surgeon hether strait.

[Exit attendant.]

KING. What irreligeous Pagans partes be these, Of such as horde them of the holy church?

Take hence that d.a.m.ned villaine from my sight.

[Exeunt attendants with body]

EPERNOUNE. Ah, had your highnes let him live, We might have punisht him for his deserts.

KING. Sweet Epernoune all Rebels under heaven, Shall take example by his punishment, How they beare armes against their soveraigne.

Goe call the English Agent hether strait, Ile send my sister England newes of this, And give her warning of her trecherous foes.

[Enter Surgeon.]

NAVARRE. Pleaseth your grace to let the Surgeon search your wound.

KING. The wound I warrant you is deepe my Lord, Search Surgeon and resolve me what thou seest.

The Surgeon searcheth.

Enter the English Agent.

Agent for England, send thy mistres word, What this detested Jacobin hath done.

Tell her for all this that I hope to live, Which if I doe, the Papall Monarck goes To wrack, an antechristian kingdome falles.

These bloudy hands shall teare his triple Crowne, And fire accursed Rome about his eares.

Ile fire his erased buildings and incense The papall towers to kisse the holy earth.

Navarre, give me thy hand, I heere do sweare, To ruinate this wicked Church of Rome, That hatcheth up such bloudy practices.

And heere protest eternall love to thee, And to the Queene of England especially, Whom G.o.d hath blest for hating Popery.

NAVARRE. These words revive my thoughts and comfort me, To see your highnes in this vertuous minde.

KING. Tell me Surgeon, shall I live?

SURGEON. Alas my Lord, the wound is dangerous, For you are stricken with a poysoned knife.

KING. A poysoned knife? what, shall the French king dye, Wounded and poysoned, both at once?

EPERNOUNE. O that that d.a.m.ned villaine were alive againe, That we might torture him with some new found death.

BARTUS. He died a death too good, the devill of h.e.l.l Torture his wicked soule.

KING. Oh curse him not since he is dead.

O the fatall poyson workes within my brest, Tell me Surgeon and flatter not, may I live?

SURGEON. Alas my Lord, your highnes cannot live.