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Classic Horror Plays > Massacre at Paris > Scene XXII

Massacre at Paris
By Christopher Marlowe
Published in 1593

Scene XXII

      [Sound Drumme and Trumpets, and enter the King of France,
      and Navarre, Epernoune, Bartus, Pleshe and Souldiers.]

Brother of Navarre, I sorrow much,
That ever I was prov'd your enemy,
And that the sweet and princely minde you beare,
Was ever troubled with injurious warres:
I vow as I am lawfull King of France,
To recompence your reconciled love,
With all the honors and affections,
That ever I vouchsafte my dearest freends.

It is enough if that Navarre may be
Esteemed faithfull to the King of France:
Whose service he may still commaund to death.

Thankes to my Kingly Brother of Navarre.
Then there wee'l lye before Lutetia's walles,
Girting this strumpet Cittie with our siege,
Till surfeiting with our afflicting armes,
She cast her hatefull stomack to the earth.

      [Enter a 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.

Let him come in.

      [Enter Frier with a Letter.]

I like not this Friers look.
Twere not amisse my Lord, if he were searcht.

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?

I my good Lord, and will dye therein.

Then come thou neer, and tell what newes thou bringst.

My Lord,
The President of Paris greetes your grace,
And sends his dutie by these speedye lines,
Humblye craving your gracious reply.

Ile read them Frier, and then Ile answere thee.

Sancte Jacobus, now have mercye on me.

      [He stabs the King with a knife as he readeth the letter, and
      then the King getteth the knife and killes him.]

O my Lord, let him live a while.

No, let the villaine dye, and feele in hell,
Just torments for his trechery.

What, is your highnes hurt?

Yes Navarre, but not to death I hope.

God shield your grace from such a sodaine death:
Goe call a surgeon hether strait.

      [Exit attendant.]

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]

Ah, had your highnes let him live,
We might have punisht him for his deserts.

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.]

Pleaseth your grace to let the Surgeon search your wound.

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 especially,
Whom God hath blest for hating Popery.

These words revive my thoughts and comfort me,
To see your highnes in this vertuous minde.

Tell me Surgeon, shall I live?

Alas my Lord, the wound is dangerous,
For you are stricken with a poysoned knife.

A poysoned knife? what, shall the French king dye,
Wounded and poysoned, both at once?

O that that damned villaine were alive againe,
That we might torture him with some new found death.

He died a death too good, the devill of hell
Torture his wicked soule.

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?

Alas my Lord, your highnes cannot live.

Surgeon, why saist thou so? the King may live.

Oh no Navarre, thou must be King of France.

Long may you live, and still be King of France.

Or else dye Epernoune.

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.]

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 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.]

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