We missed surprising of the king at Blois,
When last the states were held: 'twas oversight;
Beware we make not such another blot.

_Card._ This holy time of Lent we have him sure;
He goes unguarded, mixed with whipping friars.
In that procession, he's more fit for heaven:
What hinders us to seize the royal penitent,
And close him in a cloister?

_Cur._ Or dispatch him; I love to make all sure.

_Gui._ No; guard him safe;
Thin diet will do well; 'twill starve him into reason,
'Till he exclude his brother of Navarre,
And graft succession on a worthier choice.
To favour this, five hundred men in arms
Shall stand prepared, to enter at your call,
And speed the work; St Martin's gate was named;
But the sheriff Conty, who commands that ward,
Refused me passage there.

_Buss._ I know that Conty;
A snivelling, conscientious, loyal rogue;
He'll peach, and ruin all.

_Card._ Give out he's arbitrary, a Navarist,
A heretic; discredit him betimes,
And make his witness void.