Away, leave me alone to meditate.
Sweet Guise, would he had died so thou wert heere:
To whom shall I bewray my secrets now,
Or who will helpe to builde Religion?
The Protestants will glory and insulte,
Wicked Navarre will get the crowne of France,
The Popedome cannot stand, all goes to wrack,
And all for thee my Guise: what may I doe?
But sorrow seaze upon my toyling soule,
For since the Guise is dead, I will not live.
