_Mal._ What makes the curate of St. Eustace here?

_Mel._ Thou art mistaken, master; 'tis not he,
But 'tis a zealous, godly, canting devil,
Who has assumed the churchman's lucky shape,
To talk the crowd to madness and rebellion.

_Mal._ O true enthusiastic devil, true,--
(For lying is thy nature, even to me,)
Did'st thou not tell me, if my lord, the Guise,
Entered the court, his head should then lie low?
That was a lie; he went, and is returned.

_Mel._ 'Tis false; I said, _perhaps_ it should lie low;
And, but I chilled the blood in Henry's veins,
And crammed a thousand ghastly, frightful thoughts,
Nay, thrust them foremost in his labouring brain,
Even so it would have been.

_Mal._ Thou hast deserved me,
And I am thine, dear devil: what do we next?

_Mel._ I said, first seize the king.

_Mal._ Suppose it done:
He's clapt within a convent, shorn a saint,
My master mounts the throne.

_Mel._ Not so fast, Malicorn;