If thou be found by me, thou art but dead.
Suf. If I depart from thee, I cannot live ;
And in thy fight to die, what were it else,
But like a pleasant flumber in thy lap;
Here could I breathe my foul into the air,
As mild and gentle as the cradle-babe
Dying with mother's dug between its lips.
Where, from thy fight, I fhould be raging mad,
And cry out for thee to close up mine eyes;
To have thee with thy lips to top my mouth:
So, fhould't thou either turn my flying foul;
Or I fhould breathe it fo into thy body;
And then it liv'd in fweet Elyfium.
To die by thee, were but to die in jeft:
From thee to die, were torture more than death;
Oh! let me ftay, befal what may
Q. Mar. Away; though Parting be a fretful corrofive,
It is applied to a deathful wound.
To France, fweet Suffolk; let me hear from thee:
For wherefoe'er thou art in this world's globe,
I'll have an Iris, that fhall find thee out.
Q. Mar. And take my heart with thee.
Suf. A jewel lock'd into the woful'st casket
That ever did contain a thing of worth.
Even as a splitted bark, fo funder we;
This way fall I to death.
SCENE, the Cardinal's Bed-Chamber.
Enter King Henry, Salisbury, and Warwick, to the Cardinal in Bed.
OW fares my lord? fpeak, Beauford, to thy Sovereign.
Car. If thou beeft Death, I'll give thee England's
Enough to purchase fuch another Island,
So thou wilt let me live, and feel no pain.
K. Henry. Ah, what a fign it is of evil life,
Where death's approach is feen fo terrible!
War. Beauford, it is thy Sovereign fpeaks to thee. Car. Bring me unto my Tryal, when you will. Dy'd he not in his bed? where fhould he die? Can I make men live whe're they will or no? Oh, torture me no more, I will confefsAlive again? then fhew me where he is : I'll give a thousand pound to look upon himHe hath no eyes, the duft hath blinded them: Comb down his hair; look! look! it ftands upright, Like lime-twigs fet to catch my winged foul: Give me fome drink, and bid th' apothecary Bring the strong poison that I bought of him. K. Henry. O thou eternal Mover of the heav'ns, Look with a gentle eye upon this wretch; Oh, beat away the bufie, medling, fiend, That lays ftrong fiege unto this wretch's foul, And from his bofom purge this black despair.
War. See how the pangs of death do make him grin!
Sal. Disturb him not, let him pafs peaceably.
K. Henry. Peace to his foul, if God's good pleasure
Lord Cardinal, if thou think'ft on heaven's blifs,
Hold up thy hand, make fignal of thy hope.
He dies, and makes no fign! O God forgive him.
War. So bad a death argues a monftrous life.
K. Henry. Forbear to judge, for we are finners all.
Close up his eyes, and draw the curtain close,
And let us all to meditation.
SCENE, the Coast of Kent.
Alarum. Fight at fea. Ordnance goes off. Enter Captain, Whitmore, and other Pirates, with Suffolk and others Prisoners.
HE gaudy, blabbing, and remorseful day
Is crept into the bofom of the sea :
And now loud howling wolves aroufe the jades, That drag the tragick n.elancholy night;
Who with their drowfie, flow, and flagging wings
Clip dead mens' graves; and from their misty jaws
Breathe foul contagious darkness in the air.
Therefore bring forth the foldiers of our prize:
For whilft our Pinnace anchors in the Downs,
Here fhall they make their ranfom on the fand;
Or with their blood ftain this difcolour'd fhore.
Mafter, this prifoner freely give I thee;
And thou, that art his mate, make boot of this:
The other, Walter Whitmore, is thy fhare.
1 Gent. What is my ransom, master, let me know.
Maft. A thousand crowns, or else lay down your head.
Mate. And fo much shall you give, or off goes yours.
Whit. What, think you much to pay two thoufand
And bear the name and port of gentlemen?
Cut both the villains' throats, for die you fhall.
Nor can thofe lives, which we have loft in fight,
Be counter-pois'd with fuch a petty fum.
1 Gent. I'll give it, Sir, and therefore fpare my life. 2 Gent. And fo will I, and write home for it ftraight. Whit. I loft mine eye in laying the prize aboard, And therefore, to revenge it, fhalt thou die; [To Suffolk. And fo fhould these, if I might have my will.
Cap. Be not fo rafh, take ranfom, let him live.
Suf. Look on my George, I am a gentleman,
Rate me at what thou wilt, thou shalt be paid..
Whit. And fo am I; my name is Walter Whitmore.
How now? why start'ft thou? what, doth death affright?
Suf. Thy name affrights me, in whose found is death.
A cunning man did calculate my birth,
And told me, that by Walter I fhould die:
Yet let not this make thee be bloody-minded,
Thy name is Gualtier, being rightly founded.
Whit. Gualtier or Walter, which it is, I care not;
Ne'er yet did base difhonour blur our name,
But with our fword we wip'd away the blot.
Therefore, when merchant-like I fell
revenge,
Broke be my fword, my arms torn and defac'd,
And I proclaim'd a Coward through the world!
Suf. Stay, Whitmore; for thy prifoner is a Prince;
The Duke of Suffolk, William de la Pole.
Whit. The Duke of Suffolk muffled up in rags?
Suf. Ay, but these rags are no part of the Duke.
Kove fometimes went difguis'd, and why not I?
Cap. But Jove was never flain, as thou shalt be.
Suf. Obfcure and lowly fwain, King Henry's blood,
The honourable blood of Lancaster,
Muft not be shed by fuch a jaded groom:
Hast thou not kifs'd thy hand, and held my stirrop?
Bare headed, plodded by my foot-cloth mule,
And thought thee happy when I fhook my head?
How often haft thou waited at my cup,
Fed from my trencher, kneel'd down at the board,
When I have feafted with Queen Margaret ?
Remember it, and let it make thee creft-fal'n ;
Ay, and allay this thy abortive pride.
How in our voiding lobby haft thou stood,
And duly waited for my coming forth?
This hand of mine hath writ in thy behalf,
And therefore shall it charm thy riotous tongue.
Whit. Speak, Captain, fhall I ftab the forlorn fwain
Cap. Firft let my words ftab him, as he hath me.
Suf. Bafe flave, thy words are blunt ; and fo art thou.
Cap. Convey him hence, and on our long-boat's fide, Strike off his head.
Suf. Thou dar'ft not for thy own.
Cap. Poole, Sir Poole? lord?
Ay, kennel-puddle-fink, whose filth and dirt
Troubles the filver Spring where England drinks:
Now will I dam up this thy yawning mouth,
For fwallowing up the treasure of the Realm;
Thy lips, that kifs'd the Queen, fhall fweep the ground;
And thou, that fmild'ft at good Duke Humphry's death,
Against the fenfelefs wind's fhall grin in vain,
Who in contempt fhall hifs at thee again.
And wedded be thou to the hags of hell,
For daring to affie a mighty lord
Unto the daughter of a worthlefs King,
Having nor Subject, Wealth, nor diadem!
By devilish policy art thou grown great,
And, like ambitious Sylla, over gorg'd
With gobbets of thy mother's bleeding heart.
By thee Anjou and Maine were fold to France;
The falfe revolting Normans, thorough thee,
Difdain to call us lord; and Picardie
Hath flain their Governors, furpriz'd our Forts,
And fent the ragged foldiers wounded home.
The princely Warwick, and the Nevills all,
(Whose dreadful swords were never drawn in vain)
As hating thee, are rifing up in arms.
And now the Houfe of York (thruft from the Crown
By shameful murther of a guiltless King,
And lofty proud incroaching tyranny,)
Burns with revenging fire; whofe hopeful Colours
Advance a half-fac'd Sun ftriving to shine;
Under the which is writ, Invitis nubibus.
The Commons here in Kent are up in arms:
And to conclude, Reproach, and Beggary
Is crept into the Palace of our King,
And all by thee. Away! convey him hence.-
Suf. O, that I were a God, to fhoot forth thunder Upon thefe paultry, fervile, abject drudges!
Small things make base men proud. This villain here,
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