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The Massacre
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 send 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 upon me.
He stabs the King 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.
