O horrid thought! but one-and-twenty years,
And twelve near past, then to be steeped in fire,
Dashed against rocks, or snatched from molten lead,
Reeking, and dropping, piece-meal borne by winds,
And quenched ten thousand fathom in the deep!--
But hark! he comes: see there! my blood stands still,
[_Knocking at the Door._
My spirits start on end for Guise's fate.
_A Devil rises._
_Mal._ What counsel does the fate of Guise require?
_Dev._ Remember, with his prince there's no delay.
But, the sword drawn, to fling the sheath away;
Let not the fear of hell his spirit grieve,
The tomb is still, whatever fools believe:
Laugh at the tales which withered sages bring,
Proverbs and morals; let the waxen king,
That rules the hive, be born without a sting;
Let Guise by blood resolve to mount to power.
And he is great as Mecca's emperor.
He comes; bid him not stand on altar-vows,
But then strike deepest, when he lowest bows;
Tell him, fate's awed when an usurper springs,
And joins to crowd out just indulgent kings. [_Vanishes._
SCENE III.
_Enter the Duke of_ GUISE, _and Duke of_ MAYENNE.
_May._ All offices and dignities he gives
To your profest and most inveterate foes;
But if he were inclined, as we could wish him,
There is a lady-regent at his ear,
That never pardons.
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