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massacre at paris(巴黎大屠杀)-第9节

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earth。 

     Enter a Messenger。 

     MESSENGER。   And   it   please   your   Majestie   heere   is   a   Frier   of   the 

order of the Jacobins; sent from the President of Paris; that craves accesse 

unto your grace。 

     KING。 Let him come in。 

     Enter Frier with a Letter。 

     EPERNOUNE。 I like not this Friers look。 Twere not amisse my Lord; 

if he were searcht。 

     KING。 Sweete Epernoune; our Friers are holy men; And will not offer 

violence to their King; For all the wealth and treasure of the world。 Frier; 

thou dost acknowledge me thy King? 

     FRIER。 I my good Lord; and will dye therein。 

     KING。 Then come thou neer; and tell what newes thou bringst。 

     FRIER。 My Lord; The President of Paris greetes your grace; And sends 

his dutie by these speedye lines; Humblye craving your gracious reply。 

     KING。 Ile read them Frier; and then Ile answere thee。 

     FRIER。 Sancte Jacobus; now have mercye on me。                 He stabs the King 



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with a knife as he readeth the letter; and then the King getteth the knife 

and killes him。 

     EPERNOUNE。 O my Lord; let him live a while。 

     KING。 No; let the villaine dye; and feele in hell; Just torments for his 

trechery。 

     NAVARRE。 What; is your highnes hurt? 

     KING。 Yes Navarre; but not to death I hope。 

     NAVARRE。   God   shield   your   grace   from   such   a   sodaine   death:   Goe 

call a surgeon hether strait。 

     'Exit attendant。' 

     KING。 What irreligeous Pagans partes be these; Of such as horde them 

of the holy church? Take hence that damned villaine from my sight。 

     'Exeunt attendants with body' 

     EPERNOUNE。   Ah;   had   your   highnes   let   him   live;   We   might   have 

punisht him for his deserts。 

     KING。 Sweet Epernoune all Rebels under heaven; Shall take example 

by his   punishment;   How   they  beare armes   against   their   soveraigne。   Goe 

call the English Agent hether strait; Ile send my sister England newes of 

this; And give her warning of her trecherous foes。 

     'Enter Surgeon。' 

     NAVARRE。 Pleaseth your grace to let the Surgeon search your wound。 

     KING。 The   wound   I   warrant   you is deepe   my   Lord;  Search   Surgeon 

and resolve me what thou seest。 

     The Surgeon searcheth。 

     Enter the English Agent。 

     Agent for England; send thy mistres word; What this detested Jacobin 

hath done。 Tell her for all this that I hope to live; Which if I doe; the Papall 

Monarck goes To wrack; an antechristian kingdome falles。 These bloudy 

hands   shall   teare   his   triple   Crowne;   And   fire   accursed   Rome   about   his 

eares。 Ile fire his erased buildings and incense The papall towers to kisse 

the holy earth。 Navarre; give me thy hand; I heere do sweare; To ruinate 

this wicked Church of Rome; That hatcheth up such bloudy practices。 And 

heere    protest    eternall  love    to  thee;  And    to   the  Queene     of   England 



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especially; Whom God hath blest for hating Popery。 

    NAVARRE。 These words revive my thoughts and comfort me; To see 

your highnes in this vertuous minde。 

    KING。 Tell me Surgeon; shall I live? 

     SURGEON。         Alas   my   Lord;   the  wound    is  dangerous;    For   you  are 

stricken with a poysoned knife。 

    KING。 A poysoned knife? what; shall the French king dye; Wounded 

and poysoned; both at once? 

    EPERNOUNE。 O that that damned villaine were alive againe; That we 

might torture him with some new found death。 

    BARTUS。   He   died   a   death   too   good;   the   devill   of   hell   Torture   his 

wicked soule。 

    KING。 Oh curse him not since he is dead。 O the fatall poyson workes 

within my brest; Tell me Surgeon and flatter not; may I live? 

     SURGEON。 Alas my Lord; your highnes cannot live。 

    NAVARRE。 Surgeon; why saist thou so? the King may live。 

    KING。 Oh no Navarre; thou must be King of France。 

    NAVARRE。 Long may you live; and still be King of France。 

    EPERNOUNE。 Or else dye Epernoune。 

    KING。 Sweet Epernoune thy King must dye。 My Lords; Fight in the 

quarrell of   this   valiant   Prince;  For   he is   your lawfull   King   and   my  next 

heire: Valoyses lyne ends in my tragedie。 Now let the house of Bourbon 

weare the crowne; And may it never end in bloud as mine hath done。 Weep 

not sweet Navarre; but revenge my death。 Ah Epernoune; is this thy love 

to me? Henry thy King wipes of these childish teares; And bids thee whet 

thy sword   on   Sextus bones; That   it may  keenly  slice the   Catholicks。  He 

loves me not the best that sheds most teares; But he that makes most lavish 

of his bloud。 Fire Paris where these trecherous rebels lurke。 I dye Navarre; 

come   beare   me   to   my   Sepulchre。   Salute   the   Queene   of   England   in   my 

name; And tell her Henry dyes her faithfull freend。 

    He dyes。 

    NAVARRE。 Come Lords; take up the body of the King; That we may 

see it   honourably interde: And then   I vow  so to   revenge his death; That 



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Rome   and   all   those   popish   Prelates   there;   Shall   curse   the   time   that   ere 

Navarre was King; And rulde in France by Henries fatall death。 

     They   march       out   with   the   body   of   the   King;   lying    on   foure   mens 

shoulders with a dead march; drawingg weapons on the ground。 



     FINIS。 



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