The Massacre
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.
And antechristian kingdome falles.
These bloudy hands shall teare his triple Crowne,
And fire accursed Rome about his eares.
Ile fire his crased buildings and incense,
The papall towers to kisse the holy earth.
Navarre, give me thy hand, I heere do sweare,
To ruinate that wicked Church of Rome,
That hatcheth up such bloudy practises.
And heere protest eternall love to thee,
And to the Queene of England specially,
Whom God hath blest for hating Papestry.
Navarre.
These words revive my thoughts and comforts me,
To see your highnes in this vertuous minde.
King.
Tell me Surgeon, shall I live?
Sur.
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?
Eper.
O that that damned villaine were alive againe,
That we might torture him with some new found death.
Bar.
He died a death too good, the devill of hell torture his wicked soule.
King.
