Massacre at Paris

Enter the Pothecarie.

POTHECARIE. My Lord.

GUISE. Now shall I prove and guerdon to the ful, The love thou bear'st unto the house of Guise: Where are those perfumed gloves which late I sent To be poysoned, hast thou done them? speake, Will every savour breed a pangue of death?

POTHECARIE. See where they be my Lord, and he that smelles but to them, dyes.

GUISE. Then thou remainest resolute.

POTHECARIE. I am my Lord, in what your grace commaundes till death.

GUISE. Thankes my good freend, I wil requite thy love. Goe then, present them to the Queene Navarre: For she is that huge blemish in our eye, That makes these upstart heresies in Fraunce: Be gone my freend, present them to her straite. Souldyer.--

Exit Pothecaier.

Enter a Souldier.

SOULDIER. My Lord.

GUISE. Now come thou forth and play thy tragick part, Stand in some window opening neere the street, And when