Cold burghers must be struck, and struck like flints,
Ere their hid fire will sparkle.

_Arch._ I'm glad the king has introduced these guards.

_Card._ Your reason.

_Arch._ They are too few for us to fear;
Our numbers in old martial men are more,
The city not cast in; but the pretence,
That hither they are brought to bridle Paris,
Will make this rising pass for just defence.

_May._ Suppose the city should not rise?

_Gui._ Suppose, as well, the sun should never rise:
He may not rise, for heaven may play a trick;
But he has risen from Adam's time to ours.
Is nothing to be left to noble hazard?
No venture made, but all dull certainty?
By heaven I'll tug with Henry for a crown,
Rather than have it on tame terms of yielding:
I scorn to poach for power.

_Enter a Servant, who whispers_ GUISE.

A lady, say'st thou, young and beautiful,
Brought in a chair?
Conduct her in.-- [_Exit Servant._