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at Paris.
The Kings alone, it cannot satisfie.
Sweet Duke of Guise our prop to leane upon,
Now thou art dead, heere is no stay for us:
I am thy brother, and ile revenge thy death,
And roote Valoys his line from forth of France,
And beate proud Burbon to his native home.
That basely seekes to joyne with such a King.
Whose murderous thoughts will be his overthrow.
Hee wild the Governour of Orleance in his name,
That I with speed should have beene put to death.
But thats prevented, for to end his life.
His life, and all those traitors to the Church of Rome,
That durst attempt to murder noble Guise.
Enter the Frier.
Frier.
Dumaine.
