Massacre at Paris by Christopher Marlowe

Enter the King of Navar and Queen [Margaret], and his [olde]
Mother Queen [of Navarre], the Prince of Condy, the Admirall,
and the Pothecary with the gloves, and gives them to the olde
Queene.

POTHECARIE
Maddame, I beseech your grace to except this simple gift.

OLD QUEENE
Thanks my good freend, holde, take thou this reward.

POTHECARIE
I humbly thank your Majestie.

Exit Pothecary.

OLD QUEENE
Me thinkes the gloves have a very strong perfume,
The sent whereof doth make my head to ake.

NAVARRE
Doth not your grace know the man that gave them you?

OLD QUEENE
Not wel, but do remember such a man.

ADMIRALL
Your grace was ill advisde to take them then,
Considering of these dangerous times.

OLD QUEENE
Help sonne Navarre, I am poysoned.

QUEENE MARGARET
The heavens forbid your highnes such mishap.

NAVARRE
The late suspition of the Duke of Guise,
Might well have moved your highnes to beware
How you did meddle with such dangerous giftes.

QUEENE MARGARET
Too late it is my Lord if that be true
To blame her highnes, but I hope it be
Only some naturall passion makes her sicke.

OLD QUEENE
O no, sweet Margaret, the fatall poyson
Doth work within my heart, my brain pan breakes,
My heart doth faint, I dye.

She dyes.

NAVARRE
My Mother poysoned heere before my face:
O gracious God, what times are these?
O graunt sweet God my daies may end with hers,
That I with her may dye and live againe.

QUEENE MARGARET
Let not this heavy chaunce my dearest Lord,
(For whose effects my soule is massacred)
Infect thy gracious brest with fresh supply,
To agravate our sodaine miserie.

ADMIRALL
Come my Lords let us beare her body hence,
And see it honoured with just solemnitie.

As they are going, [enter] the Souldier [above, who] dischargeth
his musket at the Lord Admirall [and exit].

CONDY
What are you hurt my Lord high Admiral?

ADMIRALL
I my good Lord, shot through the arme.

NAVARRE
We are betraide, come my Lords, and let us goe tell
the King of this.

ADMIRALL
These are the cursed Guisians that doe seeke our death.
Oh fatall was this mariage to us all.

They beare away the [olde] Queene [of Navarre] and goe out.