_ Wings, or no wings, is not the question:
If you won't fly for't, you must ride for't,
And that comes much to one.
_King._ Forsake my regal town!
_Qu. M._ Forsake a bedlam;
This note informs me fifteen thousand men
Are marching to inclose the Louvre round.
_Abb._ The business then admits no more dispute,
You, madam, must be pleased to find the Guise;
Seem easy, fearful, yielding, what you will;
But still prolong the treaty all you can,
To gain the king more time for his escape.
_Qu. M._ I'll undertake it.--Nay, no thanks, my son.
My blessing shall be given in your deliverance;
That once performed, their web is all unravelled,
And Guise is to begin his work again. [_Exit Q.M._
_King._ I go this minute.
_Enter_ MARMOUTIERE.
Nay, then another minute must be given.--
O how I blush, that thou shouldst see thy king
Do this low act, that lessens all his fame:
Death, must a rebel force me from my love!
If it must be--
_Mar._ It must not, cannot be.
_Gril._ No, nor shall not, wench, as long as my soul wears a body.
_King._ Secure in that, I'll trust thee;--shall I trust thee?
For conquerors have charms, and women frailty:--
Farewell thou mayst behold me king again;
My soul's not yet deposed:--why then farewell!--
I'll say't as comfortably as I can:
But O cursed Guise, for pressing on my time,
And cutting off ten thousand more adieus!
_Mar.
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