Bussy D'Ambois and The Revenge of Bussy D'Ambois Part 15

_Maf._ See, even by this there's one exception more; Your Grace must be more firme in the command, 345 Or else shall I as weakly execute.

The Guise shall speak with you?

_Mons._ He shall, I say.

_Maf._ And Count Montsurry?

_Mons._ I, and Count Montsurry.

_Maf._ Your Grace must pardon me, that I am bold To urge the cleare and full sence of your pleasure; 350 Which when so ever I have knowne, I hope Your Grace will say I hit it to a haire.

_Mons._ You have.

_Maf._ I hope so, or I would be glad--

_Mons._ I pray thee, get thee gone; thou art so tedious In the strick't forme of all thy services 355 That I had better have one negligent.

You hit my pleasure well, when D'Ambois. .h.i.t you; Did you not, think you?

_Maf._ D'Ambois! why, my lord--

_Mons._ I pray thee, talk no more, but shut the dores: Doe what I charge thee.

_Maf._ I will my lord, and yet 360 I would be glad the wrong I had of D'Ambois--

_Mons._ Precious! then it is a fate that plagues me In this mans foolery; I may be murthered, While he stands on protection of his folly.

Avant, about thy charge!

_Maf._ I goe, my lord.-- 365 I had my head broke in his faithfull service; I had no suit the more, nor any thanks, And yet my teeth must still be hit with D'Ambois.

D'Ambois, my lord, shall know--

_Mons._ The devill and D'Ambois!

_Exit Maffe._ How am I tortur'd with this trusty foole! 370 Never was any curious in his place To doe things justly, but he was an a.s.se: We cannot finde one trusty that is witty, And therefore beare their disproportion.

Grant, thou great starre, and angell of my life, 375 A sure lease of it but for some few dayes, That I may cleare my bosome of the snake I cherisht there, and I will then defie All check to it but Natures; and her altars Shall crack with vessels crown'd with ev'ry liquor 380 Drawn from her highest and most bloudy humors.

I feare him strangely; his advanced valour Is like a spirit rais'd without a circle, Endangering him that ignorantly rais'd him, And for whose fury he hath learnt no limit. 385

_Enter Maffe hastily._

_Maf._ I cannot help it; what should I do more?

As I was gathering a fit guard to make My pa.s.sage to the dores, and the dores sure, The man of bloud is enter'd.

_Mons._ Rage of death!

If I had told the secret, and he knew it, 390 Thus had I bin endanger'd.

_Enter D'Ambois._

My sweet heart!

How now? what leap'st thou at?

_Bussy._ O royall object!

_Mons._ Thou dream'st awake: object in th'empty aire!

_Buss._ Worthy the browes of t.i.tan, worth his chaire.

_Mons._ Pray thee, what mean'st thou?

_Buss._ See you not a crowne 395 Empalethe forehead of the great King Monsieur?

_Mons._ O, fie upon thee!

_Buss._ Prince, that is the subject Of all these your retir'd and sole discourses.

_Mons._ Wilt thou not leave that wrongfull supposition?

_Buss._ Why wrongfull to suppose the doubtlesse right 400 To the succession worth the thinking on?

_Mons._ Well, leave these jests! how I am over-joyed With thy wish'd presence, and how fit thou com'st, For, of mine honour, I was sending for thee.

_Buss._ To what end?

_Mons._ Onely for thy company, 405 Which I have still in thought; but that's no payment On thy part made with personall appearance.

Thy absence so long suffered oftentimes Put me in some little doubt thou do'st not love me.

Wilt thou doe one thing therefore now sincerely? 410

_Buss._ I, any thing--but killing of the King.

_Mons._ Still in that discord, and ill taken note?

How most unseasonable thou playest the cucko, In this thy fall of friendship!

_Buss._ Then doe not doubt That there is any act within my nerves, 415 But killing of the King, that is not yours.

_Mons._ I will not then; to prove which, by my love Shewne to thy vertues, and by all fruits else Already sprung from that still flourishing tree, With whatsoever may hereafter spring, 420 I charge thee utter (even with all the freedome Both of thy n.o.ble nature and thy friendship) The full and plaine state of me in thy thoughts.

_Buss._ What, utter plainly what I think of you?

_Mons._ Plaine as truth. 425

_Buss._ Why this swims quite against the stream of greatnes: Great men would rather heare their flatteries, And if they be not made fooles, are not wise.

_Mons._ I am no such great foole, and therefore charge thee Even from the root of thy free heart display mee. 430

_Buss._ Since you affect it in such serious termes, If your selfe first will tell me what you think As freely and as heartily of me, I'le be as open in my thoughts of you.

_Mons._ A bargain, of mine honour! and make this, 435 That prove we in our full dissection Never so foule, live still the sounder friends.

_Buss._ What else, sir? come, pay me home, ile bide it bravely.

_Mons._ I will, I sweare. I think thee, then, a man That dares as much as a wilde horse or tyger, 440 As headstrong and as b.l.o.o.d.y; and to feed The ravenous wolfe of thy most caniball valour (Rather than not employ it) thou would'st turne Hackster to any wh.o.r.e, slave to a Jew, Or English usurer, to force possessions 445 (And cut mens throats) of morgaged estates; Or thou would'st tire thee like a tinkers strumpet, And murther market folks; quarrell with sheepe, And runne as mad as Ajax; serve a butcher; Doe any thing but killing of the King. 450 That in thy valour th'art like other naturalls That have strange gifts in nature, but no soule Diffus'd quite through, to make them of a peece, But stop at humours, that are more absurd, Childish and villanous than that hackster, wh.o.r.e, 455 Slave, cut-throat, tinkers b.i.t.c.h, compar'd before; And in those humours would'st envie, betray, Slander, blaspheme, change each houre a religion, Doe any thing, but killing of the King: That in thy valour (which is still the dunghill, 460 To which hath reference all filth in thy house) Th'art more ridiculous and vaine-glorious Than any mountibank, and impudent Than any painted bawd; which not to sooth, And glorifie thee like a Jupiter Hammon, 465 Thou eat'st thy heart in vinegar, and thy gall Turns all thy blood to poyson, which is cause Of that toad-poole that stands in thy complexion, And makes thee with a cold and earthy moisture, (Which is the damme of putrifaction) 470 As plague to thy d.a.m.n'd pride, rot as thou liv'st: To study calumnies and treacheries; To thy friends slaughters like a scrich-owle sing, And to all mischiefes--but to kill the King.