The smoke and soot smother the rising flame,
And make my soul a furnace. Woman, woman,
What can I call thee more? if devil, 'twere less.
Sure, thine's a race was never got by Adam,
But Eve played false, engendering with the serpent,
Her own part worse than his.

_Mar._ Then they got traitors.

_Gui._ Yes, angel-traitors, fit to shine in palaces,
Forked into ills, and split into deceits;
Two in their very frame. 'Twas well, 'twas well,
I saw thee not at court, thou basilisk;
For if I had, those eyes, without his guards,
Had done the tyrant's work.

_Mar._ Why then it seems
I was not false in all: I told you, Guise,
If you left Paris, I would go to court:
You see I kept my promise.

_Gui._ Still thy sex:
Once true in all thy life, and that for mischief.

_Mar._ Have I said I loved you?

_Gui._ Stab on, stab:
'Tis plain you love the king.

_Mar._ Nor him, nor you,