These musket bullets have not read much logic,
Nor are they given to make your nice distinctions:
[_One enters, and gives the
Queen a Note, she reads--_
One of them possibly may hit the king
In some one part of him that's not divine;
And so that mortal part of his majesty would draw
the divinity of it into another world, sweet Abbot.

_Qu. M._ 'Tis equal madness to go out or stay;
The reverence due to kings is all transferred
To haughty Guise; and when new gods are made,
The old must quit the temple; you must fly.

_King._ Death! had I wings, yet would I scorn to fly.

_Gril._ Wings, or no wings, is not the question:
If you won't fly for't, you must ride for't,
And that comes much to one.

_King._ Forsake my regal town!

_Qu. M._ Forsake a bedlam;
This note informs me fifteen thousand men
Are marching to inclose the Louvre round.

_Abb._ The business then admits no more dispute,
You, madam, must be pleased to find the Guise;
Seem easy, fearful, yielding, what you will;
But still prolong the treaty all you can,