at Paris.
That it might print these lines within his heart.
Enter the Guise.
Guise.
What, all alone my love, and writing too:
I prethee say to whome thou writes?
Duch.
To such a one my Lord, as when she reads my lines, will laugh I feare me at their good aray.
Guise.
I pray thee let me see.
Duch.
O no my Lord, a woman only must partake the secrets of my heart.
Guise.
But Madam I must see. he takes it.
Are these your secrets that no man must know?
Duch.
O pardon me my Lord.
Guise.
Thou trothles and unjust, what lines are these?
Am I growne olde, or is thy lust growne yong,
Or hath my love been so obscurde in thee,
That others need to comment on my text?
Is all my love forgot which helde thee deare?
I, dearer then the apple of mine eye?
Is Guises glory but a clowdy mist,
In sight and judgement of thy lustfull eye?
Mor du, wert not the fruit within thy wombe,
Of whose encrease I set some longing hope:
This wrathfull hand should strike thee to the hart.
Hence strumpet, hide thy head for shame,
And fly my presence if thou looke to live. Exit.
O wicked sexe, perjured and unjust,
Now doe I see that from the very first,
Her
