The Massacre at Paris SCENE 11.

Enter [Charles] the King of France, Navar and Epernoune
staying him: enter Queene Mother, and the Cardinall [of
Loraine, and Pleshe].

Charles.
O let me stay and rest me heer a while,
A griping paine hath ceasde upon my heart:
A sodaine pang, the messenger of death.

Queene Mother.
O say not so, thou kill'st thy mothers heart.

Charles.
I must say so, paine forceth me to complain.

Navarre.
Comfort your selfe my Lord I have no doubt,
But God will sure restore you to your health.

Charles.
O no, my loving brother of Navarre.
I have deserv'd a scourge I must confesse,
Yet is there pacience of another sort,
Then to misdoe the welfare of their King:
God graunt my neerest freends may prove no worse.
O horde me up, my sight begins to faire,
My sinnewes shrinke, my brain turns upside downe,
My heart doth break, I faint and dye.

He dies.

Queene Mother.
What art thou dead, sweet sonne? speak to thy Mother.
O no, his soule is fled from out his breast,
And he nor heares, nor sees us what we doe:
My Lords, what resteth now for to be done?
But that we presently despatch Embassadours
To Poland, to call Henry back againe,
To weare his brothers crowne and dignity.
Epernoune, goe see it presently be done,
And bid him come without delay to us.

Epernoune Madam, I will.

Exit Epernoune.

Queene Mother.
And now my Lords after these funerals be done,
We will with all the speed we can, provide
For Henries coronation from Polonia:
Come let us take his body hence.

All goe out, but Navarre and Pleshe.

Navarre.
And now Navarre whilste that these broiles doe last,
My opportunity may serve me fit,
To steale from France, and hye me to my home.
For heers no saftie in the Realme for me,
And now that Henry is cal'd from Polland,
It is my due by just succession:
And therefore as speedily as I can perfourme,
Ile muster up an army secretdy,
For feare that Guise joyn'd with the King of Spaine,
Might seek to crosse me in mine enterprise.
But God that alwaies doth defend the right,
Will shew his mercy and preserve us still.

Pleshe.
The vertues of our poor Religion,
Cannot but march with many graces more:
Whose army shall discomfort all your foes,
And at the length in Pampelonia crowne,
In spite of Spaine and all the popish power,
That hordes it from your highnesse wrongfully:
Your Majestie her rightfull Lord and Soveraigne.

Navarre Truth Pleshe, and God so prosper me in all,
As I entend to labour for the truth,
And true profession of his holy word:
Come Pleshe, lets away while time doth serve.

Exeunt.