Or could you, like great Scipio, retire,
Call Rome ungrateful, and sit down with that;
Such inward gallantry would gain you more
Than all the sullied conquests you can boast:
But oh, you want that Roman mastery;
You have too much of the tumultuous times,
And I must mourn the fate of your ambition.

_Gui._ Because the king disdains my services,
Must I not let him know I dare be gone?
What, when I feel his council on my neck,
Shall I not cast them backward if I can,
And at his feet make known their villainy?

_Mar._ No, Guise, not at his feet, but on his head;
For there you strike.

_Gui._ Madam, you wrong me now:
For still, whate'er shall come in fortune's whirl,
His person must be safe.

_Mar._ I cannot think it.
However, your last words confess too much.
Confess! what need I urge that evidence,
When every hour I see you court the crowd,
When with the shouts of the rebellious rabble,
I see you borne on shoulders to cabals;
Where, with the traitorous Council of Sixteen,
You sit, and plot the royal Henry's death;
Cloud the majestic name with fumes of wine,