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The Works of Christopher Marlowe

The Massacre at Paris

Act: 1 Scene: 22

Brother of Navarre, I sorrow much,

That ever I was prov'd your enemy,

And that the sweet and princely minde you beare,

Was ever troubled with injurious warres:

I vow as I am lawfull King of France,

To recompence your reconciled love,

With all the honors and affections,

That ever I vouchsafte my dearest freends.

Thankes to my Kingly Brother of Navarre.

Then there wee'l lye before Lutetia's walles,

Girting this strumpet Cittie with our siege,

Till surfeiting with our afflicting armes,

She cast her hatefull stomack to the earth.

Let him come in.

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?

Then come thou neer, and tell what newes thou bringst.

Ile read them Frier, and then Ile answere thee.

No, let the villaine dye, and feele in hell,

Just torments for his trechery.

Yes Navarre, but not to death I hope.

What irreligeous Pagans partes be these,

Of such as horde them of the holy church?

Take hence that damned villaine from my sight.

Sweet Epernoune all Rebels under heaven,

Shall take example by his punishment,

How they beare armes against their soveraigne.

Goe call the English Agent hether strait,

Ile send my sister England newes of this,

And give her warning of her trecherous foes.

The wound I warrant you is deepe my Lord,

Search Surgeon and resolve me what thou seest.

The Surgeon searcheth.Enter the English Agent.

Agent for England, send thy mistres word,

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, an antechristian kingdome falles.

These bloudy hands shall teare his triple Crowne,

And fire accursed Rome about his eares.

Ile fire his erased buildings and incense

The papall towers to kisse the holy earth.

Navarre, give me thy hand, I heere do sweare,

To ruinate this wicked Church of Rome,

That hatcheth up such bloudy practices.

And heere protest eternall love to thee,

And to the Queene of England especially,

Whom God hath blest for hating Popery.

Tell me Surgeon, shall I live?

A poysoned knife? what, shall the French king dye,

Wounded and poysoned, both at once?

Oh curse him not since he is dead.

O the fatall poyson workes within my brest,

Tell me Surgeon and flatter not, may I live?

Oh no Navarre, thou must be King of France.

Sweet Epernoune thy King must dye. My Lords,

Fight in the quarrell of this valiant Prince,

For he is your lawfull King and my next heire:

Valoyses lyne ends in my tragedie.

Now let the house of Bourbon weare the crowne,

And may it never end in bloud as mine hath done.

Weep not sweet Navarre, but revenge my death.

Ah Epernoune, is this thy love to me?

Henry thy King wipes of these childish teares,

And bids thee whet thy sword on Sextus bones,

That it may keenly slice the Catholicks.

He loves me not the best that sheds most teares,

But he that makes most lavish of his bloud.

Fire Paris where these trecherous rebels lurke.

I dye Navarre, come beare me to my Sepulchre.

Salute the Queene of England in my name,

And tell her Henry dyes her faithfull freend.