But O, if the design we lay should fail,
Better the traitors never should be touched,
If execution cries not out--'Tis done.

_Qu. M._ No, sir, you cannot fear the sure design:
But I have lived too long, since my own blood
Dares not confide in her that gave him being.

_King._ Stay, madam, stay; come back, forgive my fears,
Where all our thoughts should creep like deepest streams:
Know, then, I hate aspiring Guise to death;
Whored Margarita,--plots upon my life,--
And shall I not revenge?[7]

_Qu. M._ Why, this is Harry;
Harry at Moncontour, when in his bloom
He saw the admiral Coligny's back.[8]

_King._ O this whale Guise, with all the Lorrain fry!
Might I but view him, after his plots and plunges,
Struck on those cowring shallows that await him,--
This were a Florence master-piece indeed.

_Qu. M._ He comes to take his leave.

_King._ Then for Champaigne;
But lies in wait till Paris is in arms.
Call Grillon in. All that I beg you now,
Is to be hushed upon the consultation,
As urns, that never blab.