_Card._ This holy time of Lent we have him sure;
He goes unguarded, mixed with whipping friars.
In that procession, he's more fit for heaven:
What hinders us to seize the royal penitent,
And close him in a cloister?
_Cur._ Or dispatch him; I love to make all sure.
_Gui._ No; guard him safe;
Thin diet will do well; 'twill starve him into reason,
'Till he exclude his brother of Navarre,
And graft succession on a worthier choice.
To favour this, five hundred men in arms
Shall stand prepared, to enter at your call,
And speed the work; St Martin's gate was named;
But the sheriff Conty, who commands that ward,
Refused me passage there.
_Buss._ I know that Conty;
A snivelling, conscientious, loyal rogue;
He'll peach, and ruin all.
_Card._ Give out he's arbitrary, a Navarist,
A heretic; discredit him betimes,
And make his witness void.
_Cur._ I'll swear him guilty.
I swallow oaths as easy as snap-dragon,
Mock-fire that never burns.
_Gui._ Then, Bussy, be it your care to admit my troops,
At Port St Honore: [_Rises._] Night wears apace,
And day-light must not peep on dark designs.
I will myself to court, pay formal duty,
Take leave, and to my government retire;
Impatient to be soon recalled, to see
The king imprisoned, and the nation free[2]. [_Exeunt._
SCENE II.
_Enter_ MALICORN _solus._
_Mal._ Each dismal minute, when I call to mind
The promise, that I made the Prince of Hell,
In one-and-twenty years to be his slave,
Of which near twelve are gone, my soul runs back,
The wards of reason roll into their spring.
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