Will every savour breed a pangue of death?

POTHECARIE. See where they be my Lord, and he that smelles
but to them, dyes.

GUISE. Then thou remainest resolute.

POTHECARIE. I am my Lord, in what your grace commaundes till death.

GUISE. Thankes my good freend, I wil requite thy love.
Goe then, present them to the Queene Navarre:
For she is that huge blemish in our eye,
That makes these upstart heresies in Fraunce:
Be gone my freend, present them to her straite.
Souldyer.--

Exit Pothecaier.

Enter a Souldier.

SOULDIER. My Lord.

GUISE. Now come thou forth and play thy tragick part,
Stand in some window opening neere the street,
And when thou seest the Admirall ride by,
Discharge thy musket and perfourme his death:
And then Ile guerdon thee with store of crownes.

SOULDIER. I will my Lord.