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    Scene III

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    Chapter 4
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    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.
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