_Mar._ "There's something for my service to be done;"--
Those were your words.

_King._ And you desire their meaning?

_Mar._ I dare not ask, and yet, perhaps, may guess.

_King._ 'Tis searching there where heaven can only pry,
Not man, who knows not man but by surmise;
Nor devils, nor angels of a purer mould,
Can trace the winding labyrinths of thought.
I tell thee, Marmoutiere, I never speak,
Not when alone, for fear some fiend should hear,
And blab my secrets out.

_Mar._ You hate the Guise.

_King._ True, I did hate him.

_Mar._ And you hate him still.

_King._ I am reconciled.

_Mar._ Your spirit is too high,
Great souls forgive not injuries, till time
Has put their enemies into their power,
That they may shew, forgiveness is their own;
For else, 'tis fear to punish, that forgives;
The coward, not the king.