_Mar._ No; I'll return, and perish in those ruins.
I find thee now, ambitious, faithless, Guise.
Farewell, the basest and the last of men!

_Gui._ Stay, or--O heaven!--I'll force you: Stay--

_Mar._ I do believe
So ill of you, so villainously ill,
That, if you durst, you would:
Honour you've little, honesty you've less;
But conscience you have none:
Yet there's a thing called fame, and men's esteem,
Preserves me from your force. Once more, farewell.
Look on me, Guise; thou seest me now the last;
Though treason urge not thunder on thy head,
This one departing glance shall flash thee dead. [_Exit._

_Gui._ Ha, said she true? Have I so little honour?
Why, then, a prize so easy and so fair
Had never 'scaped my gripe: but mine she is;
For that's set down as sure as Henry's fall.
But my ambition, that she calls my crime;--
False, false, by fate! my right was born with me.
And heaven confest it in my very frame;
The fires, that would have formed ten thousand angels,
Were crammed together for my single soul.

_Enter_ MALICORN.

_Mal._ My lord, you trifle precious hours away;