Sir Francis Bacon's Life at The Court
"The father of this lady and her brother, Charles the Ninth, having both quitted this country Up to heaven, (the father, Henry Second,
Kill'd in a duel, being slain upon
A course at tilt, the splinters of the staff
Of Montgomery going into his beaver;
His son her brother poison'd,) left the younger prince, Who was King of Poland, th' true King of France.
His mother sent for him, and, like a thief,
He stole away and fled from th' kindly power
That put his brows within a golden crown
And called him king, and he was proclaim'd king
Of this country. That such a crafty devil
As his mother should yield the world such an asse!
A woman that bears all down with her brain,
And this, her son, cannot take two from twenty For's heart, and leave eighteen. It is a recreation But to be by, and hear him mock the Frenchman; For this princely son, Henry the Third, is so foul A wrong that it were mockery to call
peasant. Profane, sworn brother to the traitors, (The principal Catholic persons of France)
That for recreation's sake have ta'en the sacrament,
And interchangeably set down their hands
To kill his cousin, the King of Navarre,
The lion of the champions who, in God's name,
Threw down the gage of battle to the pope.
"The marriage of this gracious couple, Margaret
And th' Prince, a couple that 'twixt heaven and earth
Might have stood, begetting wonder, sounded
The vain illusions of this flattering, dark
Conspiracy, led so grossly by meddling priests
And Catherine. Amarriage feast kept with baying
Trumpets, loud churlish drums, clamours of hell,
And slaughtered men. It was a two-fold marriage-
"Twixt th' crown and Margaret, and 'twixt Navarre
And his wife. It promised a mighty fruit,
A yielding in the looks of France unto
The Huguenots, making with them a peace.
But th' feast, alack, was made a mourning feast,
The tears of lamentation raining down;
And then such crimson tempests did bedrench
The fresh green lap of fair King Charles' land,
That greenest grass did droop and turn to hay.
If ever Hymen lowr'd at marriage rites,
And had his altars deck'd with dusky lights;
If ever sun stain'd heaven with bloody clouds,
And made it look with terror on the world;
If ever day were turn'd to ugly night,
And night made semblance of the hue of hell;
That day, that hour, that fatal, fatal night,
Did fully show the fury of them all.
The angels that did bless that wedding night
Were the commissioners of Pope Gregory;
Satan was their guide; the flesh, their instructor;
Hypocrisy, their counselor; vanity,
Their fellow soldier; their wills, their law;
Ambition, their captain; custom, their rule;
Temerity, boldness, impudence, their art;
Toys, their trading; their religion, terror,
Revenge, and massacres. The black prince of darkness,
The devil, moved the King to drop upon his kingdom
Club law, fire and sword, and with fists, and not
With disputation, to compel the heretics
To stop their mouths. I know not how many
Were consumed, whole families and cities perish'd,
Because the pope won the King, and told him
That it was for his country's good, and common
Profit of religion, to plant himself,
With such authority as not a man might live
Without his leave; then should the Catholic faith
Of Rome flourish in France, and none deny the same."
"Was it done for the gospel's sake?"
"Nay for the pope's sake and for his own benefit,
To plant the pope and popelings in the realm,
And bind it wholly to the See of Rome.
Paris had full five hundred colleges,
Monasteries, priories, abbeys, and halls,
Wherein thirty thousand able men were hid,
Beside a thousand and more sturdy Catholic
Students. Five hundred fat Franciscan friars and priests In one cloister alone, kept festival.
"The watchword being giv'n, a bell was rung,
And a peal of ordnance shot from the tower,
At which, all they, the Catholics in disguise,
Did issue out, and unjustly did set
Upon th' great troop of lords and ladies that
Accompanied the young King of Navarre.
Without the white scarf that each wore, they would
Have killed the King's assistants i' th' close night.
The Duke of Guise gave orders to let none
Of the Huguenots escape murder, and then
'Tuez, tuez, tuez, let none escape!
Down with the Huguenots! murder them, kill them!
Kill them! strangle the serpents!' was the cry.
The roused game flee wildly through the streets,
And in and out from house to house they fly.
Encaged in so small a verge, whose compass is
No bigger than are Lud's Town walls, the savageness
Which burneth in these fellows' hearts against
The heretics, bursts forth. Boys, with reed voices,
Strive to speak big; the very beadsmen learn
To bend their bows of double, fatal eugh;
Yea, distaff women manage rusty bills,
And clap their female joints in stiff unwieldy arms,
Against the Puritans, who hide their heads
Like cowards, and fly here and there.
"The Mother-queen did insinuate with the King,
And, as a child, daily won him with words,
So that for truth he barely bore the name,-
'Twas she did execute and he sustain'd the blame.
For this she had a largess from the pope,
Rifling the bowels of his treasury,
A pension, and a dispensation, too;
And by that privilege to work upon,
Her policy did frame religion."
Religion! O diabole! fie, I'm asham'd!"
"The Protestants (i' remembrance of those bloody
In which the Guise, the pope, and king did set them
To tread them under foot, as traitors to the Church
Of Rome, and true religion rend from out this land,)
Were joyful that this royal marriage portended
Such bliss unto the matchless realm. The King
Sent from the court to bid all come without delay,
And see these sweet nuptial-rites solemniz'd.
They, thus misled, did march in triumph to the feast
But to be betrayed, mocked, and killed.
O, fatal was this marriage to them all!
"As I do live, so surely Catherine,
Surcharg'd with guilt of thousand massacres,
Did have her will in France, and by sufficient counsel, Did undertake to wear the royal crown.
For that she did, the pope would ratify,
In murder, mischief, or in tyranny,
And while she livèd, Catherine would be queen.
"As th' time for th' massacre to begin drew on, The King was much distress'd, and sorrowful of heart, To see what heinous stratagems these damned wits Contriv'd, and lo, alas! how like poor lambs Prepar'd for sacrifice, they hale to their long home These tender lords!
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