Massacre at Paris

[Scene iii]

        Enter the King of Navar and Queen [Margaret], and his [olde]
        Mother Queen [of Navarre], the Prince of Condy, the Admirall,
        and the Pothecary with the gloves, and gives them to the olde
        Queene.

   POTHECARIE. Maddame, I beseech your grace to except this simple gift.

   OLD QUEENE. Thanks my good freend, holde, take thou this reward.

   POTHECARIE. I humbly thank your Majestie.

        Exit Pothecary.

   OLD QUEENE. Me thinkes the gloves have a very strong perfume,
   The sent whereof doth make my head to ake.

   NAVARRE. Doth not your grace know the man that gave them you?

   OLD QUEENE. Not wel, but do remember such a man.

   ADMIRALL. Your grace was ill advisde to take them then,
   Considering of these dangerous times.

   OLD QUEENE. Help sonne Navarre, I am poysoned.

   QUEENE MARGARET. The heavens forbid your highnes such mishap.

   NAVARRE. The late suspition of the Duke of Guise,
   Might well have moved your highnes to beware
   How you did meddle with such dangerous giftes.

   QUEENE MARGARET. Too late it is my Lord if that be true
   To blame her highnes, but I hope it be
   Only some naturall passion makes her sicke.

   OLD QUEENE. O no, sweet Margaret, the fatall poyson
   Doth work within my heart, my brain pan breakes,
   My heart doth faint, I dye.

        She dyes.

   NAVARRE. My Mother poysoned heere before my face:
   O gracious God, what times are these?
   O graunt sweet God my daies may end with hers,
   That I with her may dye and live againe.

   QUEENE MARGARET. Let not this heavy chaunce my dearest Lord,
   (For whose effects my soule is massacred)
   Infect thy gracious brest with fresh supply,
   To agravate our sodaine miserie.

   ADMIRALL. Come my Lords let us beare her body hence,
   And see it honoured with just solemnitie.

        As they are going, [enter] the Souldier [above, who] dischargeth
        his musket at the Lord Admirall [and exit].

   CONDY. What are you hurt my Lord high Admiral?

   ADMIRALL. I my good Lord, shot through the arme.

   NAVARRE. We are betraide, come my Lords, and let us goe tell
   the King of this.

   ADMIRALL. These are the cursed Guisians that doe seeke our death.
   Oh fatall was this mariage to us all.

        They beare away the [olde] Queene [of Navarre] and goe out.