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 Master Simon Renard. You are bailli of Amont in Franche-Comté, a subject of the Emperor, and his legate in London. You represent here the Prince of Spain, the Queen's future consort. Your person is sacred to the favourite. But with us, 'tis another matter.—D'ye see: for you Fabiani is the shepherd, for us he's the butcher.

[It has become quite dark.

Renard.That fellow is in my way no less than in yours. You fear only for your life. I fear for my credit, which is of far greater importance. I do not talk, I act. I have less wrath than you, my lord, but more hate. I will annihilate the favourite.

Montagu.Oh! how may it be done? I think thereon the whole day long.

Renard.Not by day are queens' favourites made and unmade, but by night.

Chandos.This is a very dark and awesome night.

Renard.I find it fair for what I purpose to do.

Chandos.What do you purpose to do?

Renard.You will see.—My Lord Chandos, when a woman reigns, 'tis the reign of caprice. Then, politics is not a matter of deliberation, but of chance. One can depend upon nothing. To-day does not lead logically to to-morrow. Public affairs no longer play at chess but at cards.

Clinton.That is all very well, but let us come to the fact. When will you have delivered us from the favourite, my friend? Time presses. Tyrconnel 's to be beheaded to-morrow.

Renard.If to-night I fall in with the sort of man I seek, Tyrconnel will sup with you to-morrow night.