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massacre at paris-第7章

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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 God 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 damned villaine were alive againe;

That we might torture him with some new found death。



BARTUS。 He died a death too good; the devill of hell

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。



NAVARRE。 Surgeon; why saist thou so? the King may live。



KING。 Oh no Navarre; thou must be King of France。



NAVARRE。 Long may you live; and still be King of France。



EPERNOUNE。 Or else dye Epernoune。



KING。 Sweet Epernoune thy King must dye。 My Lords;

Fight in the quarrell of this valiant Prince;

For he is your lawfull King and my next heire:

Valoyses lyne ends in my tragedie。

Now let the house of Bourbon weare the crowne;

And may it never end in bloud as mine hath done。

Weep not sweet Navarre; but revenge my death。

Ah Epernoune; is this thy love to me?

Henry thy King wipes of these childish teares;

And bids thee whet thy sword on Sextus bones;

That it may keenly slice the Catholicks。

He loves me not the best that sheds most teares;

But he that makes most lavish of his bloud。

Fire Paris where these trecherous rebels lurke。

I dye Navarre; come beare me to my Sepulchre。

Salute the Queene of England in my name;

And tell her Henry dyes her faithfull freend。



     He dyes。



NAVARRE。 Come Lords; take up the body of the King;

That we may see it honourably interde:

And then I vow so to revenge his death;

That Rome and all those popish Prelates there;

Shall curse the time that ere Navarre was King;

And rulde in France by Henries fatall death。



     They march out with the body of the King; lying on foure

     mens shoulders with a dead march; drawingg weapons on

     the ground。









     FINIS。











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