_King._ Give me my arms.
_Gril._ For what?
_King._ I'll lead you on.
_Gril._ You are a true lion, but my men are sheep;
If you run first, I'll swear they'll follow you.
_King._ What, all turned cowards? not a man in France
Dares set his foot by mine, and perish by me?
_Gril._ Troth, I can't find them much inclined to perishing.
_King._ What can be left in danger, but to dare?
No matter for my arms, I'll go barefaced,
And seize the first bold rebel that I meet.
_Abb._ There's something of divinity in kings,
That sits between their eyes, and guards their life.
_Gril._ True, Abbot; but the mischief is, you churchmen
Can see that something further than the crowd;
These musket bullets have not read much logic,
Nor are they given to make your nice distinctions:
[_One enters, and gives the
Queen a Note, she reads--_
One of them possibly may hit the king
In some one part of him that's not divine;
And so that mortal part of his majesty would draw
the divinity of it into another world, sweet Abbot.
_Qu. M._ 'Tis equal madness to go out or stay;
The reverence due to kings is all transferred
To haughty Guise; and when new gods are made,
The old must quit the temple; you must fly.
_King._ Death! had I wings, yet would I scorn to fly.
_Gril.
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