The Massacre
If ever sunne stainde heaven with bloudy clowdes,
And made it look with terrour on the worlde:
If ever day were turnde to ugly night,
And night made semblance of the hue of hell,
This day, this houre, this fatall night,
Shall fully shew the fury of them all,
Apothecarie.
Enter the Pothecarie.
Pothe.
My Lord.
Guise.
Now shall I prove and guerdon to the ful,
The love thou bear'st unto the house of Guise:
Where are those perfumed gloves which I sent
To be poysoned, hast thou done them? speake,
Will every savour breed a pangue of death?
Pothe.
See where they be my good Lord,
And he that smelles but to them, dyes.
Guise.
Then thou remainest resolute.
Pothe.
I am my Lord, in what your grace commaundes till death.
Guise.
Thankes my good freend, I wil requite thy love.
Goe then, present them to the Queene Navarre:
For she is that huge blemish in our eye,
That makes these upstart heresies in Fraunce:
Be gone my freend, present them to her straite.
Souldyer.Exit Pothe.
Enter a Souldier.
Soul.
My Lord,
Guise.
Now come thou forth and play thy tragick part.
Stand in some window opening neere the street,
And
