You, by the holy mass! I scorn your proffers;
Is there no crimson blush to tell of fame
And shrinking womanhood! Oh shame! shame! shame!
(_The Queen remains clasping her hands to her temples, while _De Bourbon_
walks hastily up and down; after a long pause the _Queen_ speaks._)
(_The _Queen_ summons her Confessor._)
_Enter _GONZALES.
Sir, we have business with this holy father;
You may retire.