Enter two [Murtherers] dragging in the Cardenall [of Loraine].
Murder me not, I am a Cardenall.
Wert thou the Pope thou mightst not scape from us.
What, will you fyle your handes with Churchmens bloud?
Shed your bloud,
O Lord no: for we entend to strangle you.
Then there is no remedye but I must dye?
No remedye, therefore prepare your selfe.
My brother Duke Dumaine, and many moe:
To revenge our deaths upon that cursed King,
Upon whose heart may all the furies gripe,
And with their pawes drench his black soule in hell.
Yours my Lord Cardinall, you should have saide.
Now they strangle him.
So, pluck amaine,
He is hard hearted, therfore pull with violence.
Come take him away.