{"collection":"sks","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/browse/sks/ff/kh62.htm","path":"sks/ff/kh62.htm","source_url":"https://sacred-texts.com/sks/ff/kh62.htm","text":"with the death of the Good Duke Hvmfrey\nActus Primus. Scoena Prima.\nFlourish of Trumpets: Then Hoboyes.\nEnter King, Duke Humfrey, Salisbury, Warwicke, and Beauford on\nthe one\nside. The Queene, Suffolke, Yorke, Somerset, and Buckingham, on\nthe other.\nSuffolke. As by your high Imperiall Maiesty,\nI had in charge at my depart for France,\nAs Procurator to your Excellence,\nTo marry Princes Margaret for your Grace;\nSo in the Famous Ancient City, Toures,\nIn presence of the Kings of France, and Sicill,\nThe Dukes of Orleance, Calaber, Britaigne, and Alanson,\nSeuen Earles, twelue Barons, & twenty reuerend Bishops\nI haue perform'd my Taske, and was espous'd,\nAnd humbly now vpon my bended knee,\nIn sight of England, and her Lordly Peeres,\nDeliuer vp my Title in the Queene\nTo your most gracious hands, that are the Substance\nOf that great Shadow I did represent:\nThe happiest Gift, that euer Marquesse gaue,\nThe Fairest Queene, that euer King receiu'd\nKing. Suffolke arise. Welcome Queene Margaret,\nI can expresse no kinder signe of Loue\nThen this kinde kisse: O Lord, that lends me life,\nLend me a heart repleate with thankfulnesse:\nFor thou hast giuen me in this beauteous Face\nA world of earthly blessings to my soule,\nIf Simpathy of Loue vnite our thoughts\nQueen. Great King of England, & my gracious Lord,\nThe mutuall conference that my minde hath had,\nBy day, by night; waking, and in my dreames,\nIn Courtly company, or at my Beades,\nWith you mine Alder liefest Soueraigne,\nMakes me the bolder to salute my King,\nWith ruder termes, such as my wit affoords,\nAnd ouer ioy of heart doth minister\nKing. Her sight did rauish, but her grace in Speech,\nHer words yclad with wisedomes Maiesty,\nMakes me from Wondring, fall to Weeping ioyes,\nSuch is the Fulnesse of my hearts content.\nLords, with one cheerefull voice, Welcome my Loue\nAll kneel. Long liue Qu[eene]. Margaret, Englands happines\nQueene. We thanke you all.\nFlorish\nSuf. My Lord Protector, so it please your Grace,\nHeere are the Articles of contracted peace,\nBetweene our Soueraigne, and the French King Charles,\nFor eighteene moneths concluded by consent\nGlo. Reads. Inprimis, It is agreed betweene the French K[ing].\nCharles, and William de la Pole Marquesse of Suffolke,\nAmbassador\nfor Henry King of England, That the said Henry shal\nespouse the Lady Margaret, daughter vnto Reignier King of\nNaples, Sicillia, and Ierusalem, and Crowne her Queene of\nEngland, ere the thirtieth of May next ensuing.\nItem, That the Dutchy of Aniou, and the County of Main,\nshall be released and deliuered to the King her father\nKing. Vnkle, how now?\nGlo. Pardon me gracious Lord,\nSome sodaine qualme hath strucke me at the heart,\nAnd dim'd mine eyes, that I can reade no further\nKing. Vnckle of Winchester, I pray read on\nWin. Item, It is further agreed betweene them, That the\nDutchesse of Aniou and Maine, shall be released and deliuered\nouer to the King her Father, and shee sent ouer of the King of\nEnglands owne proper Cost and Charges, without hauing any\nDowry\nKing. They please vs well. Lord Marques kneel down,\nWe heere create thee the first Duke of Suffolke,\nAnd girt thee with the Sword. Cosin of Yorke,\nWe heere discharge your Grace from being Regent\nI'th parts of France, till terme of eighteene Moneths\nBe full expyr'd. Thankes Vncle Winchester,\nGloster, Yorke, Buckingham, Somerset,\nSalisburie, and Warwicke.\nWe thanke you all for this great fauour done,\nIn entertainment to my Princely Queene.\nCome, let vs in, and with all speede prouide\nTo see her Coronation be perform'd.\nExit King, Queene, and Suffolke.\nManet the rest.\nGlo. Braue Peeres of England, Pillars of the State,\nTo you Duke Humfrey must vnload his greefe:\nYour greefe, the common greefe of all the Land.\nWhat? did my brother Henry spend his youth,\nHis valour, coine, and people in the warres?\nDid he so often lodge in open field:\nIn Winters cold, and Summers parching heate,\nTo conquer France, his true inheritance?\nAnd did my brother Bedford toyle his wits,\nTo keepe by policy what Henrie got:\nHaue you your selues, Somerset, Buckingham,\nBraue Yorke, Salisbury, and victorious Warwicke,\nReceiud deepe scarres in France and Normandie:\nOr hath mine Vnckle Beauford, and my selfe,\nWith all the Learned Counsell of the Realme,\nStudied so long, sat in the Councell house,\nEarly and late, debating too and fro\nHow France and Frenchmen might be kept in awe,\nAnd hath his Highnesse in his infancie,\nCrowned in Paris in despight of foes,\nAnd shall these Labours, and these Honours dye?\nShall Henries Conquest, Bedfords vigilance,\nYour Deeds of Warre, and all our Counsell dye?\nO Peeres of England, shamefull is this League,\nFatall this Marriage, cancelling your Fame,\nBlotting your names from Bookes of memory,\nRacing the Charracters of your Renowne,\nDefacing Monuments of Conquer'd France,\nVndoing all as all had neuer bin\nCar. Nephew, what meanes this passionate discourse?\nThis preroration with such circumstance:\nFor France, 'tis ours; and we will keepe it still\nGlo. I Vnckle, we will keepe it, if we can:\nBut now it is impossible we should.\nSuffolke, the new made Duke that rules the rost,\nHath giuen the Dutchy of Aniou and Mayne,\nVnto the poore King Reignier, whose large style\nAgrees not with the leannesse of his purse\nSal. Now by the death of him that dyed for all,\nThese Counties were the Keyes of Normandie:\nBut wherefore weepes Warwicke, my valiant sonne?\nWar. For greefe that they are past recouerie.\nFor were there hope to conquer them againe,\nMy sword should shed hot blood, mine eyes no teares.\nAniou and Maine? My selfe did win them both:\nThose Prouinces, these Armes of mine did conquer,\nAnd are the Citties that I got with wounds,\nDeliuer'd vp againe with peacefull words?\nMort Dieu\nYorke. For Suffolkes Duke, may he be suffocate,\nThat dims the Honor of this Warlike Isle:\nFrance should haue torne and rent my very hart,\nBefore I would haue yeelded to this League.\nI neuer read but Englands Kings haue had\nLarge summes of Gold, and Dowries with their wiues,\nAnd our King Henry giues away his owne,\nTo match with her that brings no vantages\nHum. A proper iest, and neuer heard before,\nThat Suffolke should demand a whole Fifteenth,\nFor Costs and Charges in transporting her:\nShe should haue staid in France, and steru'd in France\nBefore -\nCar. My Lord of Gloster, now ye grow too hot,\nIt was the pleasure of my Lord the King\nHum. My Lord of Winchester I know your minde.\n'Tis not my speeches that you do mislike:\nBut 'tis my presence that doth trouble ye,\nRancour will out, proud Prelate, in thy face\nI see thy furie: If I longer stay,\nWe shall begin our ancient bickerings:\nLordings farewell, and say when I am gone,\nI prophesied, France will be lost ere long.\nExit Humfrey.\nCar. So, there goes our Protector in a rage:\n'Tis knowne to you he is mine enemy:\nNay more, an enemy vnto you all,\nAnd no great friend, I feare me to the King;\nConsider Lords, he is the next of blood,\nAnd heyre apparant to the English Crowne:\nHad Henrie got an Empire by his marriage,\nAnd all the wealthy Kingdomes of the West,\nThere's reason he should be displeas'd at it:\nLooke to it Lords, let not his smoothing words\nBewitch your hearts, be wise and circumspect.\nWhat though the common people fauour him,\nCalling him, Humfrey the good Duke of Gloster,\nClapping their hands, and crying with loud voyce,\nIesu maintaine your Royall Excellence,\nWith God preserue the good Duke Humfrey:\nI feare me Lords, for all this flattering glosse,\nHe will be found a dangerous Protector\nBuc. Why should he then protect our Soueraigne?\nHe being of age to gouerne of himselfe.\nCosin of Somerset, ioyne you with me,\nAnd altogether with the Duke of Suffolke,\nWee'l quickly hoyse Duke Humfrey from his seat\nCar. This weighty businesse will not brooke delay,\nIle to the Duke of Suffolke presently.\nExit Cardinall.\nSom. Cosin of Buckingham, though Humfries pride\nAnd greatnesse of his place be greefe to vs,\nYet let vs watch the haughtie Cardinall,\nHis insolence is more intollerable\nThen all the Princes in the Land beside,\nIf Gloster be displac'd, hee'l be Protector\nBuc. Or thou, or I Somerset will be Protectors,\nDespite Duke Humfrey, or the Cardinall.\nExit Buckingham, and Somerset.\nSal. Pride went before, Ambition followes him.\nWhile these do labour for their owne preferment,\nBehooues it vs to labor for the Realme.\nI neuer saw but Humfrey Duke of Gloster,\nDid beare him like a Noble Gentleman:\nOft haue I seene the haughty Cardinall,\nMore like a Souldier then a man o'th' Church,\nAs stout and proud as he were Lord of all,\nSweare like a Ruffian, and demeane himselfe\nVnlike the Ruler of a Common-weale.\nWarwicke my sonne, the comfort of my age,\nThy deeds, thy plainnesse, and thy house-keeping,\nHath wonne the greatest fauour of the Commons,\nExcepting none but good Duke Humfrey.\nAnd Brother Yorke, thy Acts in Ireland,\nIn bringing them to ciuill Discipline:\nThy late exploits done in the heart of France,\nWhen thou wert Regent for our Soueraigne,\nHaue made thee fear'd and honor'd of the people,\nIoyne we together for the publike good,\nIn what we can, to bridle and suppresse\nThe pride of Suffolke, and the Cardinall,\nWith Somersets and Buckinghams Ambition,\nAnd as we may, cherish Duke Humfries deeds,\nWhile they do tend the profit of the Land\nWar. So God helpe Warwicke, as he loues the Land,\nAnd common profit of his Countrey\nYor. And so sayes Yorke,\nFor he hath greatest cause\nSalisbury. Then lets make hast away,\nAnd looke vnto the maine\nWarwicke. Vnto the maine?\nOh Father, Maine is lost,\nThat Maine, which by maine force Warwicke did winne,\nAnd would haue kept, so long as breath did last:\nMain-chance father you meant, but I meant Maine,\nWhich I will win from France, or else be slaine.\nExit Warwicke, and Salisbury. Manet Yorke.\nYorke. Aniou and Maine are giuen to the French,\nParis is lost, the state of Normandie\nStands on a tickle point, now they are gone:\nSuffolke concluded on the Articles,\nThe Peeres agreed, and Henry was well pleas'd,\nTo change two Dukedomes for a Dukes faire daughter.\nI cannot blame them all, what is't to them?\n'Tis thine they giue away, and not their owne.\nPirates may make cheape penyworths of their pillage,\nAnd purchase Friends, and giue to Curtezans,\nStill reuelling like Lords till all be gone,\nWhile as the silly Owner of the goods\nWeepes ouer them, and wrings his haplesse hands,\nAnd shakes his head, and trembling stands aloofe,\nWhile all is shar'd, and all is borne away,\nReady to sterue, and dare not touch his owne.\nSo Yorke must sit, and fret, and bite his tongue,\nWhile his owne Lands are bargain'd for, and sold:\nMe thinkes the Realmes of England, France, & Ireland,\nBeare that proportion to my flesh and blood,\nAs did the fatall brand Althaea burnt,\nVnto the Princes heart of Calidon:\nAniou and Maine both giuen vnto the French?\nCold newes for me: for I had hope of France,\nEuen as I haue of fertile Englands soile.\nA day will come, when Yorke shall claime his owne,\nAnd therefore I will take the Neuils parts,\nAnd make a shew of loue to proud Duke Humfrey,\nAnd when I spy aduantage, claime the Crowne,\nFor that's the Golden marke I seeke to hit:\nNor shall proud Lancaster vsurpe my right,\nNor hold the Scepter in his childish Fist,\nNor weare the Diadem vpon his head,\nWhose Church-like humors fits not for a Crowne.\nThen Yorke be still a-while, till time do serue:\nWatch thou, and wake when others be asleepe,\nTo prie into the secrets of the State,\nTill Henrie surfetting in ioyes of loue,\nWith his new Bride, & Englands deere bought Queen,\nAnd Humfrey with the Peeres be falne at iarres:\nThen will I raise aloft the Milke-white-Rose,\nWith whose sweet smell the Ayre shall be perfum'd,\nAnd in my Standard beare the Armes of Yorke,\nTo grapple with the house of Lancaster,\nAnd force perforce Ile make him yeeld the Crowne,\nWhose bookish Rule, hath pull'd faire England downe.\nExit Yorke.\nEnter Duke Humfrey and his wife Elianor.\nElia. Why droopes my Lord like ouer-ripen'd Corn,\nHanging the head at Ceres plenteous load?\nWhy doth the Great Duke Humfrey knit his browes,\nAs frowning at the Fauours of the world?\nWhy are thine eyes fixt to the sullen earth,\nGazing on that which seemes to dimme thy sight?\nWhat seest thou there? King Henries Diadem,\nInchac'd with all the Honors of the world?\nIf so, Gaze on, and grouell on thy face,\nVntill thy head be circled with the same.\nPut forth thy hand, reach at the glorious Gold.\nWhat, is't too short? Ile lengthen it with mine,\nAnd hauing both together heau'd it vp,\nWee'l both together lift our heads to heauen,\nAnd neuer more abase our sight so low,\nAs to vouchsafe one glance vnto the ground\nHum. O Nell, sweet Nell, if thou dost loue thy Lord,\nBanish the Canker of ambitious thoughts:\nAnd may that thought, when I imagine ill\nAgainst my King and Nephew, vertuous Henry,\nBe my last breathing in this mortall world.\nMy troublous dreames this night, doth make me sad\nEli. What dream'd my Lord, tell me, and Ile requite it\nWith sweet rehearsall of my mornings dreame?\nHum. Me thought this staffe mine Office-badge in\nCourt\nWas broke in twaine: by whom, I haue forgot,\nBut as I thinke, it was by'th Cardinall,\nAnd on the peeces of the broken Wand\nWere plac'd the heads of Edmond Duke of Somerset,\nAnd William de la Pole first Duke of Suffolke.\nThis was my dreame, what it doth bode God knowes\nEli. Tut, this was nothing but an argument,\nThat he that breakes a sticke of Glosters groue,\nShall loose his head for his presumption.\nBut list to me my Humfrey, my sweete Duke:\nMe thought I sate in Seate of Maiesty,\nIn the Cathedrall Church of Westminster,\nAnd in that Chaire where Kings & Queens wer crownd,\nWhere Henrie and Dame Margaret kneel'd to me,\nAnd on my head did set the Diadem\nHum. Nay Elinor, then must I chide outright:\nPresumptuous Dame, ill-nurter'd Elianor,\nArt thou not second Woman in the Realme?\nAnd the Protectors wife belou'd of him?\nHast thou not worldly pleasure at command,\nAboue the reach or compasse of thy thought?\nAnd wilt thou still be hammering Treachery,\nTo tumble downe thy husband, and thy selfe,\nFrom top of Honor, to Disgraces feete?\nAway from me, and let me heare no more\nElia. What, what, my Lord? Are you so chollericke\nWith Elianor, for telling but her dreame?\nNext time Ile keepe my dreames vnto my selfe,\nAnd not be check'd\nHum. Nay be not angry, I am pleas'd againe.\nEnter Messenger.\nMess. My Lord Protector, 'tis his Highnes pleasure,\nYou do prepare to ride vnto S[aint]. Albons,\nWhere as the King and Queene do meane to Hawke\nHu. I go. Come Nel thou wilt ride with vs?\nEx[it]. Hum[frey]\nEli. Yes my good Lord, Ile follow presently.\nFollow I must, I cannot go before,\nWhile Gloster beares this base and humble minde.\nWere I a Man, a Duke, and next of blood,\nI would remoue these tedious stumbling blockes,\nAnd smooth my way vpon their headlesse neckes.\nAnd being a woman, I will not be slacke\nTo play my part in Fortunes Pageant.\nWhere are you there? Sir Iohn; nay feare not man,\nWe are alone, here's none but thee, & I.\nEnter Hume.\nHume. Iesus preserue your Royall Maiesty\nElia. What saist thou? Maiesty: I am but Grace\nHume. But by the grace of God, and Humes aduice,\nYour Graces Title shall be multiplied\nElia. What saist thou man? Hast thou as yet confer'd\nWith Margerie Iordane the cunning Witch,\nWith Roger Bollingbrooke the Coniurer?\nAnd will they vndertake to do me good?\nHume. This they haue promised to shew your Highnes\nA Spirit rais'd from depth of vnder ground,\nThat shall make answere to such Questions,\nAs by your Grace shall be propounded him\nElianor. It is enough, Ile thinke vpon the Questions:\nWhen from Saint Albones we doe make returne,\nWee'le see these things effected to the full.\nHere Hume, take this reward, make merry man\nWith thy Confederates in this weightie cause.\nExit Elianor\nHume. Hume must make merry with the Duchesse Gold:\nMarry and shall: but how now, Sir Iohn Hume?\nSeale vp your Lips, and giue no words but Mum,\nThe businesse asketh silent secrecie.\nDame Elianor giues Gold, to bring the Witch:\nGold cannot come amisse, were she a Deuill.\nYet haue I Gold flyes from another Coast:\nI dare not say, from the rich Cardinall,\nAnd from the great and new-made Duke of Suffolke;\nYet I doe finde it so: for to be plaine,\nThey (knowing Dame Elianors aspiring humor)\nHaue hyred me to vnder-mine the Duchesse,\nAnd buzze these Coniurations in her brayne.\nThey say, A craftie Knaue do's need no Broker,\nYet am I Suffolke and the Cardinalls Broker.\nHume, if you take not heed, you shall goe neere\nTo call them both a payre of craftie Knaues.\nWell, so it stands: and thus I feare at last,\nHumes Knauerie will be the Duchesse Wracke,\nAnd her Attainture, will be Humphreyes fall:\nSort how it will, I shall haue Gold for all.\nEnter.\nEnter three or foure Petitioners, the Armorers Man being one.\n1.Pet. My Masters, let's stand close, my Lord Protector\nwill come this way by and by, and then wee may\ndeliuer our Supplications in the Quill\n2.Pet. Marry the Lord protect him, for hee's a good\nman, Iesu blesse him.\nEnter Suffolke, and Queene.\nPeter. Here a comes me thinkes, and the Queene with\nhim: Ile be the first sure\n2.Pet. Come backe foole, this is the Duke of Suffolk,\nand not my Lord Protector\nSuff. How now fellow: would'st any thing with me?\n1.Pet. I pray my Lord pardon me, I tooke ye for my\nLord Protector\nQueene. To my Lord Protector? Are your Supplications\nto his Lordship? Let me see them: what is thine?\n1.Pet. Mine is, and't please your Grace, against Iohn\nGoodman, my Lord Cardinals Man, for keeping my House,\nand Lands, and Wife and all, from me\nSuff. Thy Wife too? that's some Wrong indeede.\nWhat's yours? What's heere? Against the Duke of\nSuffolke, for enclosing the Commons of Melforde. How\nnow, Sir Knaue?\n2.Pet. Alas Sir, I am but a poore Petitioner of our\nwhole Towneship\nPeter. Against my Master Thomas Horner, for saying,\nThat the Duke of Yorke was rightfull Heire to the\nCrowne\nQueene. What say'st thou? Did the Duke of Yorke\nsay, hee was rightfull Heire to the Crowne?\nPeter. That my Mistresse was? No forsooth: my Master\nsaid, That he was, and that the King was an Vsurper\nSuff. Who is there?\nEnter Seruant.\nTake this fellow in, and send for his Master with a Purseuant\npresently: wee'le heare more of your matter before\nthe King.\nEnter.\nQueene. And as for you that loue to be protected\nVnder the Wings of our Protectors Grace,\nBegin your Suites anew, and sue to him.\nTeare the Supplication.\nAway, base Cullions: Suffolke let them goe\nAll. Come, let's be gone.\nEnter.\nQueene. My Lord of Suffolke, say, is this the guise?\nIs this the Fashions in the Court of England?\nIs this the Gouernment of Britaines Ile?\nAnd this the Royaltie of Albions King?\nWhat, shall King Henry be a Pupill still,\nVnder the surly Glosters Gouernance?\nAm I a Queene in Title and in Stile,\nAnd must be made a Subiect to a Duke?\nI tell thee Poole, when in the Citie Tours\nThou ran'st a-tilt in honor of my Loue,\nAnd stol'st away the Ladies hearts of France;\nI thought King Henry had resembled thee,\nIn Courage, Courtship, and Proportion:\nBut all his minde is bent to Holinesse,\nTo number Aue-Maries on his Beades:\nHis Champions, are the Prophets and Apostles,\nHis Weapons, holy Sawes of sacred Writ,\nHis Studie is his Tilt-yard, and his Loues\nAre brazen Images of Canonized Saints.\nI would the Colledge of the Cardinalls\nWould chuse him Pope, and carry him to Rome,\nAnd set the Triple Crowne vpon his Head;\nThat were a State fit for his Holinesse\nSuff. Madame be patient: as I was cause\nYour Highnesse came to England, so will I\nIn England worke your Graces full content\nQueene. Beside the haughtie Protector, haue we Beauford\nThe imperious Churchman; Somerset, Buckingham,\nAnd grumbling Yorke: and not the least of these,\nBut can doe more in England then the King\nSuff. And he of these, that can doe most of all,\nCannot doe more in England then the Neuils:\nSalisbury and Warwick are no simple Peeres\nQueene. Not all these Lords do vex me halfe so much,\nAs that prowd Dame, the Lord Protectors Wife:\nShe sweepes it through the Court with troups of Ladies,\nMore like an Empresse, then Duke Humphreyes Wife:\nStrangers in Court, doe take her for the Queene:\nShe beares a Dukes Reuenewes on her backe,\nAnd in her heart she scornes our Pouertie:\nShall I not liue to be aueng'd on her?\nContemptuous base-borne Callot as she is,\nShe vaunted 'mongst her Minions t' other day,\nThe very trayne of her worst wearing Gowne,\nWas better worth then all my Fathers Lands,\nTill Suffolke gaue two Dukedomes for his Daughter\nSuff. Madame, my selfe haue lym'd a Bush for her,\nAnd plac't a Quier of such enticing Birds,\nThat she will light to listen to the Layes,\nAnd neuer mount to trouble you againe.\nSo let her rest: and Madame list to me,\nFor I am bold to counsaile you in this;\nAlthough we fancie not the Cardinall,\nYet must we ioyne with him and with the Lords,\nTill we haue brought Duke Humphrey in disgrace.\nAs for the Duke of Yorke, this late Complaint\nWill make but little for his benefit:\nSo one by one wee'le weed them all at last,\nAnd you your selfe shall steere the happy Helme.\nEnter.\nSound a Sennet.\nEnter the King, Duke Humfrey, Cardinall, Buckingham, Yorke,\nSalisbury,\nWarwicke, and the Duchesse.\nKing. For my part, Noble Lords, I care not which,\nOr Somerset, or Yorke, all's one to me\nYorke. If Yorke haue ill demean'd himselfe in France,\nThen let him be denay'd the Regentship\nSom. If Somerset be vnworthy of the Place,\nLet Yorke be Regent, I will yeeld to him\nWarw. Whether your Grace be worthy, yea or no,\nDispute not that, Yorke is the worthyer\nCard. Ambitious Warwicke, let thy betters speake\nWarw. The Cardinall's not my better in the field\nBuck. All in this presence are thy betters, Warwicke\nWarw. Warwicke may liue to be the best of all\nSalisb. Peace Sonne, and shew some reason Buckingham\nWhy Somerset should be preferr'd in this?\nQueene. Because the King forsooth will haue it so\nHumf. Madame, the King is old enough himselfe\nTo giue his Censure: These are no Womens matters\nQueene. If he be old enough, what needs your Grace\nTo be Protector of his Excellence?\nHumf. Madame, I am Protector of the Realme,\nAnd at his pleasure will resigne my Place\nSuff. Resigne it then, and leaue thine insolence.\nSince thou wert King; as who is King, but thou?\nThe Common-wealth hath dayly run to wrack,\nThe Dolphin hath preuayl'd beyond the Seas,\nAnd all the Peeres and Nobles of the Realme\nHaue beene as Bond-men to thy Soueraigntie\nCard. The Commons hast thou rackt, the Clergies Bags\nAre lanke and leane with thy Extortions\nSom. Thy sumptuous Buildings, and thy Wiues Attyre\nHaue cost a masse of publique Treasurie\nBuck. Thy Crueltie in execution\nVpon Offendors, hath exceeded Law,\nAnd left thee to the mercy of the Law\nQueene. Thy sale of Offices and Townes in France,\nIf they were knowne, as the suspect is great,\nWould make thee quickly hop without thy Head.\nExit Humfrey.\nGiue me my Fanne: what, Mynion, can ye not?\nShe giues the Duchesse a box on the eare.\nI cry you mercy, Madame: was it you?\nDuch. Was't I? yea, I it was, prowd French-woman:\nCould I come neere your Beautie with my Nayles,\nI could set my ten Commandements in your face\nKing. Sweet Aunt be quiet, 'twas against her will\nDuch. Against her will, good King? looke to't in time,\nShee'le hamper thee, and dandle thee like a Baby:\nThough in this place most Master weare no Breeches,\nShe shall not strike Dame Elianor vnreueng'd.\nExit Elianor.\nBuck. Lord Cardinall, I will follow Elianor,\nAnd listen after Humfrey, how he proceedes:\nShee's tickled now, her Fume needs no spurres,\nShee'le gallop farre enough to her destruction.\nExit Buckingham.\nEnter Humfrey.\nHumf. Now Lords, my Choller being ouer-blowne,\nWith walking once about the Quadrangle,\nI come to talke of Common-wealth Affayres.\nAs for your spightfull false Obiections,\nProue them, and I lye open to the Law:\nBut God in mercie so deale with my Soule,\nAs I in dutie loue my King and Countrey.\nBut to the matter that we haue in hand:\nI say, my Soueraigne, Yorke is meetest man\nTo be your Regent in the Realme of France\nSuff. Before we make election, giue me leaue\nTo shew some reason, of no little force,\nThat Yorke is most vnmeet of any man\nYorke. Ile tell thee, Suffolke, why I am vnmeet.\nFirst, for I cannot flatter thee in Pride:\nNext, if I be appointed for the Place,\nMy Lord of Somerset will keepe me here,\nWithout Discharge, Money, or Furniture,\nTill France be wonne into the Dolphins hands:\nLast time I danc't attendance on his will,\nTill Paris was besieg'd, famisht, and lost\nWarw. That can I witnesse, and a fouler fact\nDid neuer Traytor in the Land commit\nSuff. Peace head-strong Warwicke\nWarw. Image of Pride, why should I hold my peace?\nEnter Armorer and his Man.\nSuff. Because here is a man accused of Treason,\nPray God the Duke of Yorke excuse himselfe\nYorke. Doth any one accuse Yorke for a Traytor?\nKing. What mean'st thou, Suffolke? tell me, what are\nthese?\nSuff. Please it your Maiestie, this is the man\nThat doth accuse his Master of High Treason;\nHis words were these: That Richard, Duke of Yorke,\nWas rightfull Heire vnto the English Crowne,\nAnd that your Maiestie was an Vsurper\nKing. Say man, were these thy words?\nArmorer. And't shall please your Maiestie, I neuer sayd\nnor thought any such matter: God is my witnesse, I am\nfalsely accus'd by the Villaine\nPeter. By these tenne bones, my Lords, hee did speake\nthem to me in the Garret one Night, as wee were scowring\nmy Lord of Yorkes Armor\nYorke. Base Dunghill Villaine, and Mechanicall,\nIle haue thy Head for this thy Traytors speech:\nI doe beseech your Royall Maiestie,\nLet him haue all the rigor of the Law\nArmorer. Alas, my Lord, hang me if euer I spake the\nwords: my accuser is my Prentice, and when I did correct\nhim for his fault the other day, he did vow vpon his\nknees he would be euen with me: I haue good witnesse\nof this; therefore I beseech your Maiestie, doe not cast\naway an honest man for a Villaines accusation\nKing. Vnckle, what shall we say to this in law?\nHumf. This doome, my Lord, if I may iudge:\nLet Somerset be Regent o're the French,\nBecause in Yorke this breedes suspition;\nAnd let these haue a day appointed them\nFor single Combat, in conuenient place,\nFor he hath witnesse of his seruants malice:\nThis is the Law, and this Duke Humfreyes doome\nSom. I humbly thanke your Royall Maiestie\nArmorer. And I accept the Combat willingly\nPeter. Alas, my Lord, I cannot fight; for Gods sake\npitty my case: the spight of man preuayleth against me.\nO Lord haue mercy vpon me, I shall neuer be able to\nfight a blow: O Lord my heart\nHumf. Sirrha, or you must fight, or else be hang'd\nKing. Away with them to Prison: and the day of\nCombat, shall be the last of the next moneth. Come\nSomerset, wee'le see thee sent away.\nFlourish. Exeunt.\nEnter the Witch, the two Priests, and Bullingbrooke.\nHume. Come my Masters, the Duchesse I tell you expects\nperformance of your promises\nBulling. Master Hume, we are therefore prouided: will\nher Ladyship behold and heare our Exorcismes?\nHume. I, what else? feare you not her courage\nBulling. I haue heard her reported to be a Woman of\nan inuincible spirit: but it shall be conuenient, Master\nHume, that you be by her aloft, while wee be busie below;\nand so I pray you goe in Gods Name, and leaue vs.\nExit Hume.\nMother Iordan, be you prostrate, and grouell on the\nEarth; Iohn Southwell reade you, and let vs to our worke.\nEnter Elianor aloft.\nElianor. Well said my Masters, and welcome all: To\nthis geere, the sooner the better\nBullin. Patience, good Lady, Wizards know their times:\nDeepe Night, darke Night, the silent of the Night,\nThe time of Night when Troy was set on fire,\nThe time when Screech-owles cry, and Bandogs howle,\nAnd Spirits walke, and Ghosts breake vp their Graues;\nThat time best fits the worke we haue in hand.\nMadame, sit you, and feare not: whom wee rayse,\nWee will make fast within a hallow'd Verge.\nHere doe the Ceremonies belonging, and make the Circle,\nBullingbrooke or\nSouthwell reades, Coniuro te, &c. It Thunders and Lightens\nterribly: then\nthe Spirit riseth.\nSpirit. Ad sum\nWitch. Asmath, by the eternall God,\nWhose name and power thou tremblest at,\nAnswere that I shall aske: for till thou speake,\nThou shalt not passe from hence\nSpirit. Aske what thou wilt; that I had sayd, and\ndone\nBulling. First of the King: What shall of him become?\nSpirit. The Duke yet liues, that Henry shall depose:\nBut him out-liue, and dye a violent death\nBulling. What fates await the Duke of Suffolke?\nSpirit. By Water shall he dye, and take his end\nBulling. What shall befall the Duke of Somerset?\nSpirit. Let him shun Castles,\nSafer shall he be vpon the sandie Plaines,\nThen where Castles mounted stand.\nHaue done, for more I hardly can endure\nBulling. Discend to Darknesse, and the burning Lake:\nFalse Fiend auoide.\nThunder and Lightning. Exit Spirit.\nEnter the Duke of Yorke and the Duke of Buckingham with their\nGuard, and\nbreake in.\nYorke. Lay hands vpon these Traytors, and their trash:\nBeldam I thinke we watcht you at an ynch.\nWhat Madame, are you there? the King & Commonweale\nAre deepely indebted for this peece of paines;\nMy Lord Protector will, I doubt it not,\nSee you well guerdon'd for these good deserts\nElianor. Not halfe so bad as thine to Englands King,\nIniurious Duke, that threatest where's no cause\nBuck. True Madame, none at all: what call you this?\nAway with them, let them be clapt vp close,\nAnd kept asunder: you Madame shall with vs.\nStafford take her to thee.\nWee'le see your Trinkets here all forth-comming.\nAll away.\nEnter.\nYorke. Lord Buckingham, me thinks you watcht her well:\nA pretty Plot, well chosen to build vpon.\nNow pray my Lord, let's see the Deuils Writ.\nWhat haue we here?\nReades.\nThe Duke yet liues, that Henry shall depose:\nBut him out-liue, and dye a violent death.\nWhy this is iust, Aio aeacida Romanos vincere posso.\nWell, to the rest:\nTell me what fate awaits the Duke of Suffolke?\nBy Water shall he dye, and take his end.\nWhat shall betide the Duke of Somerset?\nLet him shunne Castles,\nSafer shall he be vpon the sandie Plaines,\nThen where Castles mounted stand.\nCome, come, my Lords,\nThese Oracles are hardly attain'd,\nAnd hardly vnderstood.\nThe King is now in progresse towards Saint Albones,\nWith him, the Husband of this louely Lady:\nThither goes these Newes,\nAs fast as Horse can carry them:\nA sorry Breakfast for my Lord Protector\nBuck. Your Grace shal giue me leaue, my Lord of York,\nTo be the Poste, in hope of his reward\nYorke. At your pleasure, my good Lord.\nWho's within there, hoe?\nEnter a Seruingman.\nInuite my Lords of Salisbury and Warwick\nTo suppe with me to morrow Night. Away.\nExeunt.\nEnter the King, Queene, Protector, Cardinall, and Suffolke, with\nFaulkners\nhallowing.\nQueene. Beleeue me Lords, for flying at the Brooke,\nI saw not better sport these seuen yeeres day:\nYet by your leaue, the Winde was very high,\nAnd ten to one, old Ioane had not gone out\nKing. But what a point, my Lord, your Faulcon made,\nAnd what a pytch she flew aboue the rest:\nTo see how God in all his Creatures workes,\nYea Man and Birds are fayne of climbing high\nSuff. No maruell, and it like your Maiestie,\nMy Lord Protectors Hawkes doe towre so well,\nThey know their Master loues to be aloft,\nAnd beares his thoughts aboue his Faulcons Pitch\nGlost. My Lord, 'tis but a base ignoble minde,\nThat mounts no higher then a Bird can sore:\nCard. I thought as much, hee would be aboue the\nClouds\nGlost. I my Lord Cardinall, how thinke you by that?\nWere it not good your Grace could flye to Heauen?\nKing. The Treasurie of euerlasting Ioy\nCard. Thy Heauen is on Earth, thine Eyes & Thoughts\nBeat on a Crowne, the Treasure of thy Heart,\nPernitious Protector, dangerous Peere,\nThat smooth'st it so with King and Common-weale\nGlost. What, Cardinall?\nIs your Priest-hood growne peremptorie?\nTant\u00e6ne animis Coelestibus ir\u00e6, Church-men so hot?\nGood Vnckle hide such mallice:\nWith such Holynesse can you doe it?\nSuff. No mallice Sir, no more then well becomes\nSo good a Quarrell, and so bad a Peere\nGlost. As who, my Lord?\nSuff. Why, as you, my Lord,\nAn't like your Lordly Lords Protectorship\nGlost. Why Suffolke, England knowes thine insolence\nQueene. And thy Ambition, Gloster\nKing. I prythee peace, good Queene,\nAnd whet not on these furious Peeres,\nFor blessed are the Peace-makers on Earth\nCard. Let me be blessed for the Peace I make\nAgainst this prowd Protector with my Sword\nGlost. Faith holy Vnckle, would't were come to that\nCard. Marry, when thou dar'st\nGlost. Make vp no factious numbers for the matter,\nIn thine owne person answere thy abuse\nCard. I, where thou dar'st not peepe:\nAnd if thou dar'st, this Euening,\nOn the East side of the Groue\nKing. How now, my Lords?\nCard. Beleeue me, Cousin Gloster,\nHad not your man put vp the Fowle so suddenly,\nWe had had more sport.\nCome with thy two-hand Sword\nGlost. True Vnckle, are ye aduis'd?\nThe East side of the Groue:\nCardinall, I am with you\nKing. Why how now, Vnckle Gloster?\nGlost. Talking of Hawking; nothing else, my Lord.\nNow by Gods Mother, Priest,\nIle shaue your Crowne for this,\nOr all my Fence shall fayle\nCard. Medice teipsum, Protector see to't well, protect\nyour selfe\nKing. The Windes grow high,\nSo doe your Stomacks, Lords:\nHow irkesome is this Musick to my heart?\nWhen such Strings iarre, what hope of Harmony?\nI pray my Lords let me compound this strife.\nEnter one crying a Miracle\nGlost. What meanes this noyse?\nFellow, what Miracle do'st thou proclayme?\nOne. A Miracle, a Miracle\nSuffolke. Come to the King, and tell him what Miracle\nOne. Forsooth, a blinde man at Saint Albones Shrine,\nWithin this halfe houre hath receiu'd his sight,\nA man that ne're saw in his life before\nKing. Now God be prays'd, that to beleeuing Soules\nGiues Light in Darknesse, Comfort in Despaire.\nEnter the Maior of Saint Albones, and his Brethren, bearing the\nman\nbetweene two in a Chayre.\nCard. Here comes the Townes-men, on Procession,\nTo present your Highnesse with the man\nKing. Great is his comfort in this Earthly Vale,\nAlthough by his sight his sinne be multiplyed\nGlost. Stand by, my Masters, bring him neere the King,\nHis Highnesse pleasure is to talke with him\nKing. Good-fellow, tell vs here the circumstance,\nThat we for thee may glorifie the Lord.\nWhat, hast thou beene long blinde, and now restor'd?\nSimpc. Borne blinde, and't please your Grace\nWife. I indeede was he\nSuff. What Woman is this?\nWife. His Wife, and't like your Worship\nGlost. Hadst thou been his Mother, thou could'st haue\nbetter told\nKing. Where wert thou borne?\nSimpc. At Barwick in the North, and't like your\nGrace\nKing. Poore Soule,\nGods goodnesse hath beene great to thee:\nLet neuer Day nor Night vnhallowed passe,\nBut still remember what the Lord hath done\nQueene. Tell me, good-fellow,\nCam'st thou here by Chance, or of Deuotion,\nTo this holy Shrine?\nSimpc. God knowes of pure Deuotion,\nBeing call'd a hundred times, and oftner,\nIn my sleepe, by good Saint Albon:\nWho said; Symon, come; come offer at my Shrine,\nAnd I will helpe thee\nWife. Most true, forsooth:\nAnd many time and oft my selfe haue heard a Voyce,\nTo call him so\nCard. What, art thou lame?\nSimpc. I, God Almightie helpe me\nSuff. How cam'st thou so?\nSimpc. A fall off of a Tree\nWife. A Plum-tree, Master\nGlost. How long hast thou beene blinde?\nSimpc. O borne so, Master\nGlost. What, and would'st climbe a Tree?\nSimpc. But that in all my life, when I was a youth\nWife. Too true, and bought his climbing very deare\nGlost. 'Masse, thou lou'dst Plummes well, that would'st\nventure so\nSimpc. Alas, good Master, my Wife desired some\nDamsons, and made me climbe, with danger of my\nLife\nGlost. A subtill Knaue, but yet it shall not serue:\nLet me see thine Eyes; winck now, now open them,\nIn my opinion, yet thou seest not well\nSimpc. Yes Master, cleare as day, I thanke God and\nSaint Albones\nGlost. Say'st thou me so: what Colour is this Cloake\nof?\nSimpc. Red Master, Red as Blood\nGlost. Why that's well said: What Colour is my\nGowne of?\nSimpc. Black forsooth, Coale-Black, as Iet\nKing. Why then, thou know'st what Colour Iet is\nof?\nSuff. And yet I thinke, Iet did he neuer see\nGlost. But Cloakes and Gownes, before this day, a\nmany\nWife. Neuer before this day, in all his life\nGlost. Tell me Sirrha, what's my Name?\nSimpc. Alas Master, I know not\nGlost. What's his Name?\nSimpc. I know not\nGlost. Nor his?\nSimpc. No indeede, Master\nGlost. What's thine owne Name?\nSimpc. Saunder Simpcoxe, and if it please you, Master\nGlost. Then Saunder, sit there,\nThe lying'st Knaue in Christendome.\nIf thou hadst beene borne blinde,\nThou might'st as well haue knowne all our Names,\nAs thus to name the seuerall Colours we doe weare.\nSight may distinguish of Colours:\nBut suddenly to nominate them all,\nIt is impossible.\nMy Lords, Saint Albone here hath done a Miracle:\nAnd would ye not thinke it, Cunning to be great,\nThat could restore this Cripple to his Legges againe\nSimpc. O Master, that you could?\nGlost. My Masters of Saint Albones,\nHaue you not Beadles in your Towne,\nAnd Things call'd Whippes?\nMaior. Yes, my Lord, if it please your Grace\nGlost. Then send for one presently\nMaior. Sirrha, goe fetch the Beadle hither straight.\nEnter.\nGlost. Now fetch me a Stoole hither by and by.\nNow Sirrha, if you meane to saue your selfe from Whipping,\nleape me ouer this Stoole, and runne away\nSimpc. Alas Master, I am not able to stand alone:\nYou goe about to torture me in vaine.\nEnter a Beadle with Whippes.\nGlost. Well Sir, we must haue you finde your Legges.\nSirrha Beadle, whippe him till he leape ouer that same\nStoole\nBeadle. I will, my Lord.\nCome on Sirrha, off with your Doublet, quickly\nSimpc. Alas Master, what shall I doe? I am not able to\nstand.\nAfter the Beadle hath hit him once, he leapes ouer the Stoole, and\nrunnes\naway: and they follow, and cry, A Miracle.\nKing. O God, seest thou this, and bearest so long?\nQueene. It made me laugh, to see the Villaine runne\nGlost. Follow the Knaue, and take this Drab away\nWife. Alas Sir, we did it for pure need\nGlost. Let the[m] be whipt through euery Market Towne,\nTill they come to Barwick, from whence they came.\nEnter.\nCard. Duke Humfrey ha's done a Miracle to day\nSuff. True: made the Lame to leape and flye away\nGlost. But you haue done more Miracles then I:\nYou made in a day, my Lord, whole Townes to flye.\nEnter Buckingham.\nKing. What Tidings with our Cousin Buckingham?\nBuck. Such as my heart doth tremble to vnfold:\nA sort of naughtie persons, lewdly bent,\nVnder the Countenance and Confederacie\nOf Lady Elianor, the Protectors Wife,\nThe Ring-leader and Head of all this Rout,\nHaue practis'd dangerously against your State,\nDealing with Witches and with Coniurers,\nWhom we haue apprehended in the Fact,\nRaysing vp wicked Spirits from vnder ground,\nDemanding of King Henries Life and Death,\nAnd other of your Highnesse Priuie Councell,\nAs more at large your Grace shall vnderstand\nCard. And so my Lord Protector, by this meanes\nYour Lady is forth-comming, yet at London.\nThis Newes I thinke hath turn'd your Weapons edge;\n'Tis like, my Lord, you will not keepe your houre\nGlost. Ambitious Church-man, leaue to afflict my heart:\nSorrow and griefe haue vanquisht all my powers;\nAnd vanquisht as I am, I yeeld to thee,\nOr to the meanest Groome\nKing. O God, what mischiefes work the wicked ones?\nHeaping confusion on their owne heads thereby\nQueene. Gloster, see here the Taincture of thy Nest,\nAnd looke thy selfe be faultlesse, thou wert best\nGlost. Madame, for my selfe, to Heauen I doe appeale,\nHow I haue lou'd my King, and Common-weale:\nAnd for my Wife, I know not how it stands,\nSorry I am to heare what I haue heard,\nNoble shee is: but if shee haue forgot\nHonor and Vertue, and conuers't with such,\nAs like to Pytch, defile Nobilitie;\nI banish her my Bed, and Companie,\nAnd giue her as a Prey to Law and Shame,\nThat hath dis-honored Glosters honest Name\nKing. Well, for this Night we will repose vs here:\nTo morrow toward London, back againe,\nTo looke into this Businesse thorowly,\nAnd call these foule Offendors to their Answeres;\nAnd poyse the Cause in Iustice equall Scales,\nWhose Beame stands sure, whose rightful cause preuailes.\nFlourish. Exeunt.\nEnter Yorke, Salisbury, and Warwick.\nYorke. Now my good Lords of Salisbury & Warwick,\nOur simple Supper ended, giue me leaue,\nIn this close Walke, to satisfie my selfe,\nIn crauing your opinion of my Title,\nWhich is infallible, to Englands Crowne\nSalisb. My Lord, I long to heare it at full\nWarw. Sweet Yorke begin: and if thy clayme be good,\nThe Neuills are thy Subiects to command\nYorke. Then thus:\nEdward the third, my Lords, had seuen Sonnes:\nThe first, Edward the Black-Prince, Prince of Wales;\nThe second, William of Hatfield; and the third,\nLionel, Duke of Clarence; next to whom,\nWas Iohn of Gaunt, the Duke of Lancaster;\nThe fift, was Edmond Langley, Duke of Yorke;\nThe sixt, was Thomas of Woodstock, Duke of Gloster;\nWilliam of Windsor was the seuenth, and last.\nEdward the Black-Prince dyed before his Father,\nAnd left behinde him Richard, his onely Sonne,\nWho after Edward the third's death, raign'd as King,\nTill Henry Bullingbrooke, Duke of Lancaster,\nThe eldest Sonne and Heire of Iohn of Gaunt,\nCrown'd by the Name of Henry the fourth,\nSeiz'd on the Realme, depos'd the rightfull King,\nSent his poore Queene to France, from whence she came,\nAnd him to Pumfret; where, as all you know,\nHarmelesse Richard was murthered traiterously\nWarw. Father, the Duke hath told the truth;\nThus got the House of Lancaster the Crowne\nYorke. Which now they hold by force, and not by right:\nFor Richard, the first Sonnes Heire, being dead,\nThe Issue of the next Sonne should haue reign'd\nSalisb. But William of Hatfield dyed without an\nHeire\nYorke. The third Sonne, Duke of Clarence,\nFrom whose Line I clayme the Crowne,\nHad Issue Phillip, a Daughter,\nWho marryed Edmond Mortimer, Earle of March:\nEdmond had Issue, Roger, Earle of March;\nRoger had Issue, Edmond, Anne, and Elianor\nSalisb. This Edmond, in the Reigne of Bullingbrooke,\nAs I haue read, layd clayme vnto the Crowne,\nAnd but for Owen Glendour, had beene King;\nWho kept him in Captiuitie, till he dyed.\nBut, to the rest\nYorke. His eldest Sister, Anne,\nMy Mother, being Heire vnto the Crowne,\nMarryed Richard, Earle of Cambridge,\nWho was to Edmond Langley,\nEdward the thirds fift Sonnes Sonne;\nBy her I clayme the Kingdome:\nShe was Heire to Roger, Earle of March,\nWho was the Sonne of Edmond Mortimer,\nWho marryed Phillip, sole Daughter\nVnto Lionel, Duke of Clarence.\nSo, if the Issue of the elder Sonne\nSucceed before the younger, I am King\nWarw. What plaine proceedings is more plain then this?\nHenry doth clayme the Crowne from Iohn of Gaunt,\nThe fourth Sonne, Yorke claymes it from the third:\nTill Lionels Issue fayles, his should not reigne.\nIt fayles not yet, but flourishes in thee,\nAnd in thy Sonnes, faire slippes of such a Stock.\nThen Father Salisbury, kneele we together,\nAnd in this priuate Plot be we the first,\nThat shall salute our rightfull Soueraigne\nWith honor of his Birth-right to the Crowne\nBoth. Long liue our Soueraigne Richard, Englands\nKing\nYorke. We thanke you Lords:\nBut I am not your King, till I be Crown'd,\nAnd that my Sword be stayn'd\nWith heart-blood of the House of Lancaster:\nAnd that's not suddenly to be perform'd,\nBut with aduice and silent secrecie.\nDoe you as I doe in these dangerous dayes,\nWinke at the Duke of Suffolkes insolence,\nAt Beaufords Pride, at Somersets Ambition,\nAt Buckingham, and all the Crew of them,\nTill they haue snar'd the Shepheard of the Flock,\nThat vertuous Prince, the good Duke Humfrey:\n'Tis that they seeke; and they, in seeking that,\nShall finde their deaths, if Yorke can prophecie\nSalisb. My Lord, breake we off; we know your minde\nat full\nWarw. My heart assures me, that the Earle of Warwick\nShall one day make the Duke of Yorke a King\nYorke. And Neuill, this I doe assure my selfe,\nRichard shall liue to make the Earle of Warwick\nThe greatest man in England, but the King.\nExeunt.\nSound Trumpets. Enter the King and State, with Guard, to banish\nthe\nDuchesse.\nKing. Stand forth Dame Elianor Cobham,\nGlosters Wife:\nIn sight of God, and vs, your guilt is great,\nReceiue the Sentence of the Law for sinne,\nSuch as by Gods Booke are adiudg'd to death.\nYou foure from hence to Prison, back againe;\nFrom thence, vnto the place of Execution:\nThe Witch in Smithfield shall be burnt to ashes,\nAnd you three shall be strangled on the Gallowes.\nYou Madame, for you are more Nobly borne,\nDespoyled of your Honor in your Life,\nShall, after three dayes open Penance done,\nLiue in your Countrey here, in Banishment,\nWith Sir Iohn Stanly, in the Ile of Man\nElianor. Welcome is Banishment, welcome were my\nDeath\nGlost. Elianor, the Law thou seest hath iudged thee,\nI cannot iustifie whom the Law condemnes:\nMine eyes are full of teares, my heart of griefe.\nAh Humfrey, this dishonor in thine age,\nWill bring thy head with sorrow to the ground.\nI beseech your Maiestie giue me leaue to goe;\nSorrow would sollace, and mine Age would ease\nKing. Stay Humfrey, Duke of Gloster,\nEre thou goe, giue vp thy Staffe,\nHenry will to himselfe Protector be,\nAnd God shall be my hope, my stay, my guide,\nAnd Lanthorne to my feete:\nAnd goe in peace, Humfrey, no lesse belou'd,\nThen when thou wert Protector to thy King\nQueene. I see no reason, why a King of yeeres\nShould be to be protected like a Child,\nGod and King Henry gouerne Englands Realme:\nGiue vp your Staffe, Sir, and the King his Realme\nGlost. My Staffe? Here, Noble Henry, is my Staffe:\nAs willingly doe I the same resigne,\nAs ere thy Father Henry made it mine;\nAnd euen as willingly at thy feete I leaue it,\nAs others would ambitiously receiue it.\nFarewell good King: when I am dead, and gone,\nMay honorable Peace attend thy Throne.\nExit Gloster.\nQueene. Why now is Henry King, and Margaret Queen,\nAnd Humfrey, Duke of Gloster, scarce himselfe,\nThat beares so shrewd a mayme: two Pulls at once;\nHis Lady banisht, and a Limbe lopt off.\nThis Staffe of Honor raught, there let it stand,\nWhere it best fits to be, in Henries hand\nSuff. Thus droupes this loftie Pyne, & hangs his sprayes,\nThus Elianors Pride dyes in her youngest dayes\nYorke. Lords, let him goe. Please it your Maiestie,\nThis is the day appointed for the Combat,\nAnd ready are the Appellant and Defendant,\nThe Armorer and his Man, to enter the Lists,\nSo please your Highnesse to behold the fight\nQueene. I, good my Lord: for purposely therefore\nLeft I the Court, to see this Quarrell try'de\nKing. A Gods Name see the Lysts and all things fit,\nHere let them end it, and God defend the right\nYorke. I neuer saw a fellow worse bestead,\nOr more afraid to fight, then is the Appellant,\nThe seruant of this Armorer, my Lords.\nEnter at one Doore the Armorer and his Neighbors, drinking to\nhim so\nmuch, that hee is drunke; and he enters with a Drumme before\nhim, and his\nStaffe, with a Sand-bagge fastened to it: and at the other Doore his\nMan,\nwith a Drumme and Sand-bagge, and Prentices drinking to him.\n1.Neighbor. Here Neighbour Horner, I drinke to you\nin a Cup of Sack; and feare not Neighbor, you shall doe\nwell enough\n2.Neighbor. And here Neighbour, here's a Cuppe of\nCharneco\n3.Neighbor. And here's a Pot of good Double-Beere\nNeighbor: drinke, and feare not your Man\nArmorer. Let it come yfaith, and Ile pledge you all,\nand a figge for Peter\n1.Prent. Here Peter, I drinke to thee, and be not afraid\n2.Prent. Be merry Peter, and feare not thy Master,\nFight for credit of the Prentices\nPeter. I thanke you all: drinke, and pray for me, I pray\nyou, for I thinke I haue taken my last Draught in this\nWorld. Here Robin, and if I dye, I giue thee my Aporne;\nand Will, thou shalt haue my Hammer: and here Tom,\ntake all the Money that I haue. O Lord blesse me, I pray\nGod, for I am neuer able to deale with my Master, hee\nhath learnt so much fence already\nSalisb. Come, leaue your drinking, and fall to blowes.\nSirrha, what's thy Name?\nPeter. Peter forsooth\nSalisb. Peter? what more?\nPeter. Thumpe\nSalisb. Thumpe? Then see thou thumpe thy Master\nwell\nArmorer. Masters, I am come hither as it were vpon\nmy Mans instigation, to proue him a Knaue, and my selfe\nan honest man: and touching the Duke of Yorke, I will\ntake my death, I neuer meant him any ill, nor the King,\nnor the Queene: and therefore Peter haue at thee with a\ndowne-right blow\nYorke. Dispatch, this Knaues tongue begins to double.\nSound Trumpets, Alarum to the Combattants.\nThey fight, and Peter strikes him downe.\nArmorer. Hold Peter, hold, I confesse, I confesse Treason\nYorke. Take away his Weapon: Fellow thanke God,\nand the good Wine in thy Masters way\nPeter. O God, haue I ouercome mine Enemies in this\npresence? O Peter, thou hast preuayl'd in right\nKing. Goe, take hence that Traytor from our sight,\nFor by his death we doe perceiue his guilt,\nAnd God in Iustice hath reueal'd to vs\nThe truth and innocence of this poore fellow,\nWhich he had thought to haue murther'd wrongfully.\nCome fellow, follow vs for thy Reward.\nSound a flourish. Exeunt.\nEnter Duke Humfrey and his Men in Mourning Cloakes.\nGlost. Thus sometimes hath the brightest day a Cloud:\nAnd after Summer, euermore succeedes\nBarren Winter, with his wrathfull nipping Cold;\nSo Cares and Ioyes abound, as Seasons fleet.\nSirs, what's a Clock?\nSeru. Tenne, my Lord\nGlost. Tenne is the houre that was appointed me,\nTo watch the comming of my punisht Duchesse:\nVnneath may shee endure the Flintie Streets,\nTo treade them with her tender-feeling feet.\nSweet Nell, ill can thy Noble Minde abrooke\nThe abiect People, gazing on thy face,\nWith enuious Lookes laughing at thy shame,\nThat erst did follow thy prowd Chariot-Wheeles,\nWhen thou didst ride in triumph through the streets.\nBut soft, I thinke she comes, and Ile prepare\nMy teare-stayn'd eyes, to see her Miseries.\nEnter the Duchesse in a white Sheet, and a Taper burning in her\nhand, with\nthe Sherife and Officers.\nSeru. So please your Grace, wee'le take her from the\nSherife\nGloster. No, stirre not for your liues, let her passe\nby\nElianor. Come you, my Lord, to see my open shame?\nNow thou do'st Penance too. Looke how they gaze,\nSee how the giddy multitude doe point,\nAnd nodde their heads, and throw their eyes on thee.\nAh Gloster, hide thee from their hatefull lookes,\nAnd in thy Closet pent vp, rue my shame,\nAnd banne thine Enemies, both mine and thine\nGlost. Be patient, gentle Nell, forget this griefe\nElianor. Ah Gloster, teach me to forget my selfe:\nFor whilest I thinke I am thy married Wife,\nAnd thou a Prince, Protector of this Land;\nMe thinkes I should not thus be led along,\nMayl'd vp in shame, with Papers on my back,\nAnd follow'd with a Rabble, that reioyce\nTo see my teares, and heare my deepe-fet groanes.\nThe ruthlesse Flint doth cut my tender feet,\nAnd when I start, the enuious people laugh,\nAnd bid me be aduised how I treade.\nAh Humfrey, can I beare this shamefull yoake?\nTrowest thou, that ere Ile looke vpon the World,\nOr count them happy, that enioyes the Sunne?\nNo: Darke shall be my Light, and Night my Day.\nTo thinke vpon my Pompe, shall be my Hell.\nSometime Ile say, I am Duke Humfreyes Wife,\nAnd he a Prince, and Ruler of the Land:\nYet so he rul'd, and such a Prince he was,\nAs he stood by, whilest I, his forlorne Duchesse,\nWas made a wonder, and a pointing stock\nTo euery idle Rascall follower.\nBut be thou milde, and blush not at my shame,\nNor stirre at nothing, till the Axe of Death\nHang ouer thee, as sure it shortly will.\nFor Suffolke, he that can doe all in all\nWith her, that hateth thee and hates vs all,\nAnd Yorke, and impious Beauford, that false Priest,\nHaue all lym'd Bushes to betray thy Wings,\nAnd flye thou how thou canst, they'le tangle thee.\nBut feare not thou, vntill thy foot be snar'd,\nNor neuer seeke preuention of thy foes\nGlost. Ah Nell, forbeare: thou aymest all awry.\nI must offend, before I be attainted:\nAnd had I twentie times so many foes,\nAnd each of them had twentie times their power,\nAll these could not procure me any scathe,\nSo long as I am loyall, true, and crimelesse.\nWould'st haue me rescue thee from this reproach?\nWhy yet thy scandall were not wipt away,\nBut I in danger for the breach of Law.\nThy greatest helpe is quiet, gentle Nell:\nI pray thee sort thy heart to patience,\nThese few dayes wonder will be quickly worne.\nEnter a Herald.\nHer. I summon your Grace to his Maiesties Parliament,\nHolden at Bury, the first of this next Moneth\nGlost. And my consent ne're ask'd herein before?\nThis is close dealing. Well, I will be there.\nMy Nell, I take my leaue: and Master Sherife,\nLet not her Penance exceede the Kings Commission\nSh. And't please your Grace, here my Commission stayes:\nAnd Sir Iohn Stanly is appointed now,\nTo take her with him to the Ile of Man\nGlost. Must you, Sir Iohn, protect my Lady here?\nStanly. So am I giuen in charge, may't please your\nGrace\nGlost. Entreat her not the worse, in that I pray\nYou vse her well: the World may laugh againe,\nAnd I may liue to doe you kindnesse, if you doe it her.\nAnd so Sir Iohn, farewell\nElianor. What, gone my Lord, and bid me not farewell?\nGlost. Witnesse my teares, I cannot stay to speake.\nExit Gloster.\nElianor. Art thou gone to? all comfort goe with thee,\nFor none abides with me: my Ioy, is Death;\nDeath, at whose Name I oft haue beene afear'd,\nBecause I wish'd this Worlds eternitie.\nStanley, I prethee goe, and take me hence,\nI care not whither, for I begge no fauor;\nOnely conuey me where thou art commanded\nStanley. Why, Madame, that is to the Ile of Man,\nThere to be vs'd according to your State\nElianor. That's bad enough, for I am but reproach:\nAnd shall I then be vs'd reproachfully?\nStanley. Like to a Duchesse, and Duke Humfreyes Lady,\nAccording to that State you shall be vs'd\nElianor. Sherife farewell, and better then I fare,\nAlthough thou hast beene Conduct of my shame\nSherife. It is my Office, and Madame pardon me\nElianor. I, I, farewell, thy Office is discharg'd:\nCome Stanley, shall we goe?\nStanley. Madame, your Penance done,\nThrow off this Sheet,\nAnd goe we to attyre you for our Iourney\nElianor. My shame will not be shifted with my Sheet:\nNo, it will hang vpon my richest Robes,\nAnd shew it selfe, attyre me how I can.\nGoe, leade the way, I long to see my Prison.\nExeunt.\nSound a Senet. Enter King, Queene, Cardinall, Suffolke, Yorke,\nBuckingham,\nSalisbury, and Warwicke, to the Parliament.\nKing. I muse my Lord of Gloster is not come:\n'Tis not his wont to be the hindmost man,\nWhat e're occasion keepes him from vs now\nQueene. Can you not see? or will ye not obserue\nThe strangenesse of his alter'd Countenance?\nWith what a Maiestie he beares himselfe,\nHow insolent of late he is become,\nHow prowd, how peremptorie, and vnlike himselfe.\nWe know the time since he was milde and affable,\nAnd if we did but glance a farre-off Looke,\nImmediately he was vpon his Knee,\nThat all the Court admir'd him for submission.\nBut meet him now, and be it in the Morne,\nWhen euery one will giue the time of day,\nHe knits his Brow, and shewes an angry Eye,\nAnd passeth by with stiffe vnbowed Knee,\nDisdaining dutie that to vs belongs.\nSmall Curres are not regarded when they grynne,\nBut great men tremble when the Lyon rores,\nAnd Humfrey is no little Man in England.\nFirst note, that he is neere you in discent,\nAnd should you fall, he is the next will mount.\nMe seemeth then, it is no Pollicie,\nRespecting what a rancorous minde he beares,\nAnd his aduantage following your decease,\nThat he should come about your Royall Person,\nOr be admitted to your Highnesse Councell.\nBy flatterie hath he wonne the Commons hearts:\nAnd when he please to make Commotion,\n'Tis to be fear'd they all will follow him.\nNow 'tis the Spring, and Weeds are shallow-rooted,\nSuffer them now, and they'le o're-grow the Garden,\nAnd choake the Herbes for want of Husbandry.\nThe reuerent care I beare vnto my Lord,\nMade me collect these dangers in the Duke.\nIf it be fond, call it a Womans feare:\nWhich feare, if better Reasons can supplant,\nI will subscribe, and say I wrong'd the Duke.\nMy Lord of Suffolke, Buckingham, and Yorke,\nReproue my allegation, if you can,\nOr else conclude my words effectuall\nSuff. Well hath your Highnesse seene into this Duke:\nAnd had I first beene put to speake my minde,\nI thinke I should haue told your Graces Tale.\nThe Duchesse, by his subornation,\nVpon my Life began her diuellish practises:\nOr if he were not priuie to those Faults,\nYet by reputing of his high discent,\nAs next the King, he was successiue Heire,\nAnd such high vaunts of his Nobilitie,\nDid instigate the Bedlam braine-sick Duchesse,\nBy wicked meanes to frame our Soueraignes fall.\nSmooth runnes the Water, where the Brooke is deepe,\nAnd in his simple shew he harbours Treason.\nThe Fox barkes not, when he would steale the Lambe.\nNo, no, my Soueraigne, Glouster is a man\nVnsounded yet, and full of deepe deceit\nCard. Did he not, contrary to forme of Law,\nDeuise strange deaths, for small offences done?\nYorke. And did he not, in his Protectorship,\nLeuie great summes of Money through the Realme,\nFor Souldiers pay in France, and neuer sent it?\nBy meanes whereof, the Townes each day reuolted\nBuck. Tut, these are petty faults to faults vnknowne,\nWhich time will bring to light in smooth Duke Humfrey\nKing. My Lords at once: the care you haue of vs,\nTo mowe downe Thornes that would annoy our Foot,\nIs worthy prayse: but shall I speake my conscience,\nOur Kinsman Gloster is as innocent,\nFrom meaning Treason to our Royall Person,\nAs is the sucking Lambe, or harmelesse Doue:\nThe Duke is vertuous, milde, and too well giuen,\nTo dreame on euill, or to worke my downefall\nQu. Ah what's more dangerous, then this fond affiance?\nSeemes he a Doue? his feathers are but borrow'd,\nFor hee's disposed as the hatefull Rauen.\nIs he a Lambe? his Skinne is surely lent him,\nFor hee's enclin'd as is the rauenous Wolues.\nWho cannot steale a shape, that meanes deceit?\nTake heed, my Lord, the welfare of vs all,\nHangs on the cutting short that fraudfull man.\nEnter Somerset\nSom. All health vnto my gracious Soueraigne\nKing. Welcome Lord Somerset: What Newes from\nFrance?\nSom. That all your Interest in those Territories,\nIs vtterly bereft you: all is lost\nKing. Cold Newes, Lord Somerset: but Gods will be\ndone\nYorke. Cold Newes for me: for I had hope of France,\nAs firmely as I hope for fertile England.\nThus are my Blossomes blasted in the Bud,\nAnd Caterpillers eate my Leaues away:\nBut I will remedie this geare ere long,\nOr sell my Title for a glorious Graue.\nEnter Gloucester.\nGlost. All happinesse vnto my Lord the King:\nPardon, my Liege, that I haue stay'd so long\nSuff. Nay Gloster, know that thou art come too soone,\nVnlesse thou wert more loyall then thou art:\nI doe arrest thee of High Treason here\nGlost. Well Suffolke, thou shalt not see me blush,\nNor change my Countenance for this Arrest:\nA Heart vnspotted, is not easily daunted.\nThe purest Spring is not so free from mudde,\nAs I am cleare from Treason to my Soueraigne.\nWho can accuse me? wherein am I guiltie?\nYorke. 'Tis thought, my Lord,\nThat you tooke Bribes of France,\nAnd being Protector, stay'd the Souldiers pay,\nBy meanes whereof, his Highnesse hath lost France\nGlost. Is it but thought so?\nWhat are they that thinke it?\nI neuer rob'd the Souldiers of their pay,\nNor euer had one penny Bribe from France.\nSo helpe me God, as I haue watcht the Night,\nI, Night by Night, in studying good for England.\nThat Doyt that ere I wrested from the King,\nOr any Groat I hoorded to my vse,\nBe brought against me at my Tryall day.\nNo: many a Pound of mine owne proper store,\nBecause I would not taxe the needie Commons,\nHaue I dis-pursed to the Garrisons,\nAnd neuer ask'd for restitution\nCard. It serues you well, my Lord, to say so much\nGlost. I say no more then truth, so helpe me God\nYorke. In your Protectorship, you did deuise\nStrange Tortures for Offendors, neuer heard of,\nThat England was defam'd by Tyrannie\nGlost. Why 'tis well known, that whiles I was Protector,\nPittie was all the fault that was in me:\nFor I should melt at an Offendors teares,\nAnd lowly words were Ransome for their fault:\nVnlesse it were a bloody Murtherer,\nOr foule felonious Theefe, that fleec'd poore passengers,\nI neuer gaue them condigne punishment.\nMurther indeede, that bloodie sinne, I tortur'd\nAboue the Felon, or what Trespas else\nSuff. My Lord, these faults are easie, quickly answer'd:\nBut mightier Crimes are lay'd vnto your charge,\nWhereof you cannot easily purge your selfe.\nI doe arrest you in his Highnesse Name,\nAnd here commit you to my Lord Cardinall\nTo keepe, vntill your further time of Tryall\nKing. My Lord of Gloster, 'tis my speciall hope,\nThat you will cleare your selfe from all suspence,\nMy Conscience tells me you are innocent\nGlost. Ah gracious Lord, these dayes are dangerous:\nVertue is choakt with foule Ambition,\nAnd Charitie chas'd hence by Rancours hand;\nFoule Subornation is predominant,\nAnd Equitie exil'd your Highnesse Land.\nI know, their Complot is to haue my Life:\nAnd if my death might make this Iland happy,\nAnd proue the Period of their Tyrannie,\nI would expend it with all willingnesse.\nBut mine is made the Prologue to their Play:\nFor thousands more, that yet suspect no perill,\nWill not conclude their plotted Tragedie.\nBeaufords red sparkling eyes blab his hearts mallice,\nAnd Suffolks cloudie Brow his stormie hate;\nSharpe Buckingham vnburthens with his tongue,\nThe enuious Load that lyes vpon his heart:\nAnd dogged Yorke, that reaches at the Moone,\nWhose ouer-weening Arme I haue pluckt back,\nBy false accuse doth leuell at my Life.\nAnd you, my Soueraigne Lady, with the rest,\nCauselesse haue lay'd disgraces on my head,\nAnd with your best endeuour haue stirr'd vp\nMy liefest Liege to be mine Enemie:\nI, all of you haue lay'd your heads together,\nMy selfe had notice of your Conuenticles,\nAnd all to make away my guiltlesse Life.\nI shall not want false Witnesse, to condemne me,\nNor store of Treasons, to augment my guilt:\nThe ancient Prouerbe will be well effected,\nA Staffe is quickly found to beat a Dogge\nCard. My Liege, his rayling is intollerable.\nIf those that care to keepe your Royall Person\nFrom Treasons secret Knife, and Traytors Rage,\nBe thus vpbrayded, chid, and rated at,\nAnd the Offendor graunted scope of speech,\n'Twill make them coole in zeale vnto your Grace\nSuff. Hath he not twit our Soueraigne Lady here\nWith ignominious words, though Clarkely coucht?\nAs if she had suborned some to sweare\nFalse allegations, to o'rethrow his state\nQu. But I can giue the loser leaue to chide\nGlost. Farre truer spoke then meant: I lose indeede,\nBeshrew the winners, for they play'd me false,\nAnd well such losers may haue leaue to speake\nBuck. Hee'le wrest the sence, and hold vs here all day.\nLord Cardinall, he is your Prisoner\nCard. Sirs, take away the Duke, and guard him sure\nGlost. Ah, thus King Henry throwes away his Crutch,\nBefore his Legges be firme to beare his Body.\nThus is the Shepheard beaten from thy side,\nAnd Wolues are gnarling, who shall gnaw thee first.\nAh that my feare were false, ah that it were;\nFor good King Henry, thy decay I feare.\nExit Gloster.\nKing. My Lords, what to your wisdomes seemeth best,\nDoe, or vndoe, as if our selfe were here\nQueene. What, will your Highnesse leaue the Parliament?\nKing. I Margaret: my heart is drown'd with griefe,\nWhose floud begins to flowe within mine eyes;\nMy Body round engyrt with miserie:\nFor what's more miserable then Discontent?\nAh Vnckle Humfrey, in thy face I see\nThe Map of Honor, Truth, and Loyaltie:\nAnd yet, good Humfrey, is the houre to come,\nThat ere I prou'd thee false, or fear'd thy faith.\nWhat lowring Starre now enuies thy estate?\nThat these great Lords, and Margaret our Queene,\nDoe seeke subuersion of thy harmelesse Life.\nThou neuer didst them wrong, nor no man wrong:\nAnd as the Butcher takes away the Calfe,\nAnd binds the Wretch, and beats it when it strayes,\nBearing it to the bloody Slaughter-house;\nEuen so remorselesse haue they borne him hence:\nAnd as the Damme runnes lowing vp and downe,\nLooking the way her harmelesse young one went,\nAnd can doe naught but wayle her Darlings losse;\nEuen so my selfe bewayles good Glosters case\nWith sad vnhelpefull teares, and with dimn'd eyes;\nLooke after him, and cannot doe him good:\nSo mightie are his vowed Enemies.\nHis fortunes I will weepe, and 'twixt each groane,\nSay, who's a Traytor? Gloster he is none.\nEnter.\nQueene. Free Lords:\nCold Snow melts with the Sunnes hot Beames:\nHenry, my Lord, is cold in great Affaires,\nToo full of foolish pittie: and Glosters shew\nBeguiles him, as the mournefull Crocodile\nWith sorrow snares relenting passengers;\nOr as the Snake, roll'd in a flowring Banke,\nWith shining checker'd slough doth sting a Child,\nThat for the beautie thinkes it excellent.\nBeleeue me Lords, were none more wise then I,\nAnd yet herein I iudge mine owne Wit good;\nThis Gloster should be quickly rid the World,\nTo rid vs from the feare we haue of him\nCard. That he should dye, is worthie pollicie,\nBut yet we want a Colour for his death:\n'Tis meet he be condemn'd by course of Law\nSuff. But in my minde, that were no pollicie:\nThe King will labour still to saue his Life,\nThe Commons haply rise, to saue his Life;\nAnd yet we haue but triuiall argument,\nMore then mistrust, that shewes him worthy death\nYorke. So that by this, you would not haue him dye\nSuff. Ah Yorke, no man aliue, so faine as I\nYorke. 'Tis Yorke that hath more reason for his death.\nBut my Lord Cardinall, and you my Lord of Suffolke,\nSay as you thinke, and speake it from your Soules:\nWer't not all one, an emptie Eagle were set,\nTo guard the Chicken from a hungry Kyte,\nAs place Duke Humfrey for the Kings Protector?\nQueene. So the poore Chicken should be sure of death\nSuff. Madame 'tis true: and wer't not madnesse then,\nTo make the Fox surueyor of the Fold?\nWho being accus'd a craftie Murtherer,\nHis guilt should be but idly posted ouer,\nBecause his purpose is not executed.\nNo: let him dye, in that he is a Fox,\nBy nature prou'd an Enemie to the Flock,\nBefore his Chaps be stayn'd with Crimson blood,\nAs Humfrey prou'd by Reasons to my Liege.\nAnd doe not stand on Quillets how to slay him:\nBe it by Gynnes, by Snares, by Subtletie,\nSleeping, or Waking, 'tis no matter how,\nSo he be dead; for that is good deceit,\nWhich mates him first, that first intends deceit\nQueene. Thrice Noble Suffolke, 'tis resolutely spoke\nSuff. Not resolute, except so much were done,\nFor things are often spoke, and seldome meant,\nBut that my heart accordeth with my tongue,\nSeeing the deed is meritorious,\nAnd to preserue my Soueraigne from his Foe,\nSay but the word, and I will be his Priest\nCard. But I would haue him dead, my Lord of Suffolke,\nEre you can take due Orders for a Priest:\nSay you consent, and censure well the deed,\nAnd Ile prouide his Executioner,\nI tender so the safetie of my Liege\nSuff. Here is my Hand, the deed is worthy doing\nQueene. And so say I\nYorke. And I: and now we three haue spoke it,\nIt skills not greatly who impugnes our doome.\nEnter a Poste.\nPost. Great Lords, from Ireland am I come amaine,\nTo signifie, that Rebels there are vp,\nAnd put the Englishmen vnto the Sword.\nSend Succours (Lords) and stop the Rage betime,\nBefore the Wound doe grow vncurable;\nFor being greene, there is great hope of helpe\nCard. A Breach that craues a quick expedient stoppe.\nWhat counsaile giue you in this weightie cause?\nYorke. That Somerset be sent as Regent thither:\n'Tis meet that luckie Ruler be imploy'd,\nWitnesse the fortune he hath had in France\nSom. If Yorke, with all his farre-fet pollicie,\nHad beene the Regent there, in stead of me,\nHe neuer would haue stay'd in France so long\nYorke. No, not to lose it all, as thou hast done.\nI rather would haue lost my Life betimes,\nThen bring a burthen of dis-honour home,\nBy staying there so long, till all were lost.\nShew me one skarre, character'd on thy Skinne,\nMens flesh preseru'd so whole, doe seldome winne\nQu. Nay then, this sparke will proue a raging fire,\nIf Wind and Fuell be brought, to feed it with:\nNo more, good Yorke; sweet Somerset be still.\nThy fortune, Yorke, hadst thou beene Regent there,\nMight happily haue prou'd farre worse then his\nYorke. What, worse then naught? nay, then a shame\ntake all\nSomerset. And in the number, thee, that wishest\nshame\nCard. My Lord of Yorke, trie what your fortune is:\nTh' vnciuill Kernes of Ireland are in Armes,\nAnd temper Clay with blood of Englishmen.\nTo Ireland will you leade a Band of men,\nCollected choycely, from each Countie some,\nAnd trie your hap against the Irishmen?\nYorke. I will, my Lord, so please his Maiestie\nSuff. Why, our Authoritie is his consent,\nAnd what we doe establish, he confirmes:\nThen, Noble Yorke, take thou this Taske in hand\nYorke. I am content: Prouide me Souldiers, Lords,\nWhiles I take order for mine owne affaires\nSuff. A charge, Lord Yorke, that I will see perform'd.\nBut now returne we to the false Duke Humfrey\nCard. No more of him: for I will deale with him,\nThat henceforth he shall trouble vs no more:\nAnd so breake off, the day is almost spent,\nLord Suffolke, you and I must talke of that euent\nYorke. My Lord of Suffolke, within foureteene dayes\nAt Bristow I expect my Souldiers,\nFor there Ile shippe them all for Ireland\nSuff. Ile see it truly done, my Lord of Yorke.\nExeunt.\nManet Yorke.\nYorke. Now Yorke, or neuer, steele thy fearfull thoughts,\nAnd change misdoubt to resolution;\nBe that thou hop'st to be, or what thou art;\nResigne to death, it is not worth th' enioying:\nLet pale-fac't feare keepe with the meane-borne man,\nAnd finde no harbor in a Royall heart.\nFaster the[n] Spring-time showres, comes thoght on thoght,\nAnd not a thought, but thinkes on Dignitie.\nMy Brayne, more busie then the laboring Spider,\nWeaues tedious Snares to trap mine Enemies.\nWell Nobles, well: 'tis politikely done,\nTo send me packing with an Hoast of men:\nI feare me, you but warme the starued Snake,\nWho cherisht in your breasts, will sting your hearts.\n'Twas men I lackt, and you will giue them me;\nI take it kindly: yet be well assur'd,\nYou put sharpe Weapons in a mad-mans hands.\nWhiles I in Ireland nourish a mightie Band,\nI will stirre vp in England some black Storme,\nShall blowe ten thousand Soules to Heauen, or Hell:\nAnd this fell Tempest shall not cease to rage,\nVntill the Golden Circuit on my Head,\nLike to the glorious Sunnes transparant Beames,\nDoe calme the furie of this mad-bred Flawe.\nAnd for a minister of my intent,\nI haue seduc'd a head-strong Kentishman,\nIohn Cade of Ashford,\nTo make Commotion, as full well he can,\nVnder the title of Iohn Mortimer.\nIn Ireland haue I seene this stubborne Cade\nOppose himselfe against a Troupe of Kernes,\nAnd fought so long, till that his thighes with Darts\nWere almost like a sharpe-quill'd Porpentine:\nAnd in the end being rescued, I haue seene\nHim capre vpright, like a wilde Morisco,\nShaking the bloody Darts, as he his Bells.\nFull often, like a shag-hayr'd craftie Kerne,\nHath he conuersed with the Enemie,\nAnd vndiscouer'd, come to me againe,\nAnd giuen me notice of their Villanies.\nThis Deuill here shall be my substitute;\nFor that Iohn Mortimer, which now is dead,\nIn face, in gate, in speech he doth resemble.\nBy this, I shall perceiue the Commons minde,\nHow they affect the House and Clayme of Yorke.\nSay he be taken, rackt, and tortured;\nI know, no paine they can inflict vpon him,\nWill make him say, I mou'd him to those Armes.\nSay that he thriue, as 'tis great like he will,\nWhy then from Ireland come I with my strength,\nAnd reape the Haruest which that Rascall sow'd.\nFor Humfrey; being dead, as he shall be,\nAnd Henry put apart: the next for me.\nEnter.\nEnter two or three running ouer the Stage, from the Murther of\nDuke\nHumfrey.\n1. Runne to my Lord of Suffolke: let him know\nWe haue dispatcht the Duke, as he commanded\n2. Oh, that it were to doe: what haue we done?\nDidst euer heare a man so penitent?\nEnter Suffolke.\n1. Here comes my Lord\nSuff. Now Sirs, haue you dispatcht this thing?\n1. I, my good Lord, hee's dead\nSuff. Why that's well said. Goe, get you to my House,\nI will reward you for this venturous deed:\nThe King and all the Peeres are here at hand.\nHaue you layd faire the Bed? Is all things well,\nAccording as I gaue directions?\n1. 'Tis, my good Lord\nSuff. Away, be gone.\nExeunt.\nSound Trumpets. Enter the King, the Queene, Cardinall, Suffolke,\nSomerset,\nwith Attendants.\nKing. Goe call our Vnckle to our presence straight:\nSay, we intend to try his Grace to day,\nIf he be guiltie, as 'tis published\nSuff. Ile call him presently, my Noble Lord.\nEnter\nKing. Lords take your places: and I pray you all\nProceed no straiter 'gainst our Vnckle Gloster,\nThen from true euidence, of good esteeme,\nHe be approu'd in practise culpable\nQueene. God forbid any Malice should preuayle,\nThat faultlesse may condemne a Noble man:\nPray God he may acquit him of suspition\nKing. I thanke thee Nell, these wordes content mee\nmuch.\nEnter Suffolke.\nHow now? why look'st thou pale? why tremblest thou?\nWhere is our Vnckle? what's the matter, Suffolke?\nSuff. Dead in his Bed, my Lord: Gloster is dead\nQueene. Marry God forfend\nCard. Gods secret Iudgement: I did dreame to Night,\nThe Duke was dumbe, and could not speake a word.\nKing sounds.\nQu. How fares my Lord? Helpe Lords, the King is\ndead\nSom. Rere vp his Body, wring him by the Nose\nQu. Runne, goe, helpe, helpe: Oh Henry ope thine eyes\nSuff. He doth reuiue againe, Madame be patient\nKing. Oh Heauenly God\nQu. How fares my gracious Lord?\nSuff. Comfort my Soueraigne, gracious Henry comfort\nKing. What, doth my Lord of Suffolke comfort me?\nCame he right now to sing a Rauens Note,\nWhose dismall tune bereft my Vitall powres:\nAnd thinkes he, that the chirping of a Wren,\nBy crying comfort from a hollow breast,\nCan chase away the first-conceiued sound?\nHide not thy poyson with such sugred words,\nLay not thy hands on me: forbeare I say,\nTheir touch affrights me as a Serpents sting.\nThou balefull Messenger, out of my sight:\nVpon thy eye-balls, murderous Tyrannie\nSits in grim Maiestie, to fright the World.\nLooke not vpon me, for thine eyes are wounding;\nYet doe not goe away: come Basiliske,\nAnd kill the innocent gazer with thy sight:\nFor in the shade of death, I shall finde ioy;\nIn life, but double death, now Gloster's dead\nQueene. Why do you rate my Lord of Suffolke thus?\nAlthough the Duke was enemie to him,\nYet he most Christian-like laments his death:\nAnd for my selfe, Foe as he was to me,\nMight liquid teares, or heart-offending groanes,\nOr blood-consuming sighes recall his Life;\nI would be blinde with weeping, sicke with grones,\nLooke pale as Prim-rose with blood-drinking sighes,\nAnd all to haue the Noble Duke aliue.\nWhat know I how the world may deeme of me?\nFor it is knowne we were but hollow Friends:\nIt may be iudg'd I made the Duke away,\nSo shall my name with Slanders tongue be wounded,\nAnd Princes Courts be fill'd with my reproach:\nThis get I by his death: Aye me vnhappie,\nTo be a Queene, and Crown'd with infamie\nKing. Ah woe is me for Gloster, wretched man\nQueen. Be woe for me, more wretched then he is.\nWhat, Dost thou turne away, and hide thy face?\nI am no loathsome Leaper, looke on me.\nWhat? Art thou like the Adder waxen deafe?\nBe poysonous too, and kill thy forlorne Queene.\nIs all thy comfort shut in Glosters Tombe?\nWhy then Dame Elianor was neere thy ioy.\nErect his Statue, and worship it,\nAnd make my Image but an Ale-house signe.\nWas I for this nye wrack'd vpon the Sea,\nAnd twice by aukward winde from Englands banke\nDroue backe againe vnto my Natiue Clime.\nWhat boaded this? but well fore-warning winde\nDid seeme to say, seeke not a Scorpions Nest,\nNor set no footing on this vnkinde Shore.\nWhat did I then? But curst the gentle gusts,\nAnd he that loos'd them forth their Brazen Caues,\nAnd bid them blow towards Englands blessed shore,\nOr turne our Sterne vpon a dreadfull Rocke:\nYet aeolus would not be a murtherer,\nBut left that hatefull office vnto thee.\nThe pretty vaulting Sea refus'd to drowne me,\nKnowing that thou wouldst haue me drown'd on shore\nWith teares as salt as Sea, through thy vnkindnesse.\nThe splitting Rockes cowr'd in the sinking sands,\nAnd would not dash me with their ragged sides,\nBecause thy flinty heart more hard then they,\nMight in thy Pallace, perish Elianor.\nAs farre as I could ken thy Chalky Cliffes,\nWhen from thy Shore, the Tempest beate vs backe,\nI stood vpon the Hatches in the storme:\nAnd when the duskie sky, began to rob\nMy earnest-gaping-sight of thy Lands view,\nI tooke a costly Iewell from my necke,\nA Hart it was bound in with Diamonds,\nAnd threw it towards thy Land: The Sea receiu'd it,\nAnd so I wish'd thy body might my Heart:\nAnd euen with this, I lost faire Englands view,\nAnd bid mine eyes be packing with my Heart,\nAnd call'd them blinde and duskie Spectacles,\nFor loosing ken of Albions wished Coast.\nHow often haue I tempted Suffolkes tongue\n(The agent of thy foule inconstancie)\nTo sit and watch me as Ascanius did,\nWhen he to madding Dido would vnfold\nHis Fathers Acts, commenc'd in burning Troy.\nAm I not witcht like her? Or thou not false like him?\nAye me, I can no more: Dye Elinor,\nFor Henry weepes, that thou dost liue so long.\nNoyse within. Enter Warwicke, and many Commons.\nWar. It is reported, mighty Soueraigne,\nThat good Duke Humfrey Traiterously is murdred\nBy Suffolke, and the Cardinall Beaufords meanes:\nThe Commons like an angry Hiue of Bees\nThat want their Leader, scatter vp and downe,\nAnd care not who they sting in his reuenge.\nMy selfe haue calm'd their spleenfull mutinie,\nVntill they heare the order of his death\nKing. That he is dead good Warwick, 'tis too true,\nBut how he dyed, God knowes, not Henry:\nEnter his Chamber, view his breathlesse Corpes,\nAnd comment then vpon his sodaine death\nWar. That shall I do my Liege; Stay Salsburie\nWith the rude multitude, till I returne\nKing. O thou that iudgest all things, stay my thoghts:\nMy thoughts, that labour to perswade my soule,\nSome violent hands were laid on Humfries life:\nIf my suspect be false, forgiue me God,\nFor iudgement onely doth belong to thee:\nFaine would I go to chafe his palie lips,\nWith twenty thousand kisses, and to draine\nVpon his face an Ocean of salt teares,\nTo tell my loue vnto his dumbe deafe trunke,\nAnd with my fingers feele his hand, vnfeeling:\nBut all in vaine are these meane Obsequies,\nBed put forth.\nAnd to suruey his dead and earthy Image:\nWhat were it but to make my sorrow greater?\nWarw. Come hither gracious Soueraigne, view this\nbody\nKing. That is to see how deepe my graue is made,\nFor with his soule fled all my worldly solace:\nFor seeing him, I see my life in death\nWar. As surely as my soule intends to liue\nWith that dread King that tooke our state vpon him,\nTo free vs from his Fathers wrathfull curse,\nI do beleeue that violent hands were laid\nVpon the life of this thrice-famed Duke\nSuf. A dreadfull Oath, sworne with a solemn tongue:\nWhat instance giues Lord Warwicke for his vow\nWar. See how the blood is setled in his face.\nOft haue I seene a timely-parted Ghost,\nOf ashy semblance, meager, pale, and bloodlesse,\nBeing all descended to the labouring heart,\nWho in the Conflict that it holds with death,\nAttracts the same for aydance 'gainst the enemy,\nWhich with the heart there cooles, and ne're returneth,\nTo blush and beautifie the Cheeke againe.\nBut see, his face is blacke, and full of blood:\nHis eye-balles further out, than when he liued,\nStaring full gastly, like a strangled man:\nHis hayre vprear'd, his nostrils stretcht with strugling:\nHis hands abroad display'd, as one that graspt\nAnd tugg'd for Life, and was by strength subdude.\nLooke on the sheets his haire (you see) is sticking,\nHis well proportion'd Beard, made ruffe and rugged,\nLike to the Summers Corne by Tempest lodged:\nIt cannot be but he was murdred heere,\nThe least of all these signes were probable\nSuf. Why Warwicke, who should do the D[uke]. to death?\nMy selfe and Beauford had him in protection,\nAnd we I hope sir, are no murtherers\nWar. But both of you were vowed D[uke]. Humfries foes,\nAnd you (forsooth) had the good Duke to keepe:\nTis like you would not feast him like a friend,\nAnd 'tis well seene, he found an enemy\nQueen. Than you belike suspect these Noblemen,\nAs guilty of Duke Humfries timelesse death\nWarw. Who finds the Heyfer dead, and bleeding fresh,\nAnd sees fast-by, a Butcher with an Axe,\nBut will suspect, 'twas he that made the slaughter?\nWho finds the Partridge in the Puttocks Nest,\nBut may imagine how the Bird was dead,\nAlthough the Kyte soare with vnbloudied Beake?\nEuen so suspitious is this Tragedie\nQu. Are you the Butcher, Suffolk? where's your Knife?\nIs Beauford tearm'd a Kyte? where are his Tallons?\nSuff. I weare no Knife, to slaughter sleeping men,\nBut here's a vengefull Sword, rusted with ease,\nThat shall be scowred in his rancorous heart,\nThat slanders me with Murthers Crimson Badge.\nSay, if thou dar'st, prowd Lord of Warwickshire,\nThat I am faultie in Duke Humfreyes death\nWarw. What dares not Warwick, if false Suffolke dare\nhim?\nQu. He dares not calme his contumelious Spirit,\nNor cease to be an arrogant Controller,\nThough Suffolke dare him twentie thousand times\nWarw. Madame be still: with reuerence may I say,\nFor euery word you speake in his behalfe,\nIs slander to your Royall Dignitie\nSuff. Blunt-witted Lord, ignoble in demeanor,\nIf euer Lady wrong'd her Lord so much,\nThy Mother tooke into her blamefull Bed\nSome sterne vntutur'd Churle; and Noble Stock\nWas graft with Crab-tree slippe, whose Fruit thou art,\nAnd neuer of the Neuils Noble Race\nWarw. But that the guilt of Murther bucklers thee,\nAnd I should rob the Deaths-man of his Fee,\nQuitting thee thereby of ten thousand shames,\nAnd that my Soueraignes presence makes me milde,\nI would, false murd'rous Coward, on thy Knee\nMake thee begge pardon for thy passed speech,\nAnd say, it was thy Mother that thou meant'st,\nThat thou thy selfe wast borne in Bastardie;\nAnd after all this fearefull Homage done,\nGiue thee thy hyre, and send thy Soule to Hell,\nPernicious blood-sucker of sleeping men\nSuff. Thou shalt be waking, while I shed thy blood,\nIf from this presence thou dar'st goe with me\nWarw. Away euen now, or I will drag thee hence:\nVnworthy though thou art, Ile cope with thee,\nAnd doe some seruice to Duke Humfreyes Ghost.\nExeunt.\nKing. What stronger Brest-plate then a heart vntainted?\nThrice is he arm'd, that hath his Quarrell iust;\nAnd he but naked, though lockt vp in Steele,\nWhose Conscience with Iniustice is corrupted.\nA noyse within.\nQueene. What noyse is this?\nEnter Suffolke and Warwicke, with their Weapons drawne.\nKing. Why how now Lords?\nYour wrathfull Weapons drawne,\nHere in our presence? Dare you be so bold?\nWhy what tumultuous clamor haue we here?\nSuff. The trayt'rous Warwick, with the men of Bury,\nSet all vpon me, mightie Soueraigne.\nEnter Salisbury.\nSalisb. Sirs stand apart, the King shall know your\nminde.\nDread Lord, the Commons send you word by me,\nVnlesse Lord Suffolke straight be done to death,\nOr banished faire Englands Territories,\nThey will by violence teare him from your Pallace,\nAnd torture him with grieuous lingring death.\nThey say, by him the good Duke Humfrey dy'de:\nThey say, in him they feare your Highnesse death;\nAnd meere instinct of Loue and Loyaltie,\nFree from a stubborne opposite intent,\nAs being thought to contradict your liking,\nMakes them thus forward in his Banishment.\nThey say, in care of your most Royall Person,\nThat if your Highnesse should intend to sleepe,\nAnd charge, that no man should disturbe your rest,\nIn paine of your dislike, or paine of death;\nYet not withstanding such a strait Edict,\nWere there a Serpent seene, with forked Tongue,\nThat slyly glyded towards your Maiestie,\nIt were but necessarie you were wak't:\nLeast being suffer'd in that harmefull slumber,\nThe mortall Worme might make the sleepe eternall.\nAnd therefore doe they cry, though you forbid,\nThat they will guard you, where you will, or no,\nFrom such fell Serpents as false Suffolke is;\nWith whose inuenomed and fatall sting,\nYour louing Vnckle, twentie times his worth,\nThey say is shamefully bereft of life\nCommons within. An answer from the King, my Lord\nof Salisbury\nSuff. 'Tis like the Commons, rude vnpolisht Hindes,\nCould send such Message to their Soueraigne:\nBut you, my Lord, were glad to be imploy'd,\nTo shew how queint an Orator you are.\nBut all the Honor Salisbury hath wonne,\nIs, that he was the Lord Embassador,\nSent from a sort of Tinkers to the King\nWithin. An answer from the King, or wee will all\nbreake in\nKing. Goe Salisbury, and tell them all from me,\nI thanke them for their tender louing care;\nAnd had I not beene cited so by them,\nYet did I purpose as they doe entreat:\nFor sure, my thoughts doe hourely prophecie,\nMischance vnto my State by Suffolkes meanes.\nAnd therefore by his Maiestie I sweare,\nWhose farre-vnworthie Deputie I am,\nHe shall not breathe infection in this ayre,\nBut three dayes longer, on the paine of death\nQu. Oh Henry, let me pleade for gentle Suffolke\nKing. Vngentle Queene, to call him gentle Suffolke.\nNo more I say: if thou do'st pleade for him,\nThou wilt but adde encrease vnto my Wrath.\nHad I but sayd, I would haue kept my Word;\nBut when I sweare, it is irreuocable:\nIf after three dayes space thou here bee'st found,\nOn any ground that I am Ruler of,\nThe World shall not be Ransome for thy Life.\nCome Warwicke, come good Warwicke, goe with mee,\nI haue great matters to impart to thee.\nEnter.\nQu. Mischance and Sorrow goe along with you,\nHearts Discontent, and sowre Affliction,\nBe play-fellowes to keepe you companie:\nThere's two of you, the Deuill make a third,\nAnd three-fold Vengeance tend vpon your steps\nSuff. Cease, gentle Queene, these Execrations,\nAnd let thy Suffolke take his heauie leaue\nQueen. Fye Coward woman, and soft harted wretch,\nHast thou not spirit to curse thine enemy\nSuf. A plague vpon them: wherefore should I cursse\nthem?\nWould curses kill, as doth the Mandrakes grone,\nI would inuent as bitter searching termes,\nAs curst, as harsh, and horrible to heare,\nDeliuer'd strongly through my fixed teeth,\nWith full as many signes of deadly hate,\nAs leane-fac'd enuy in her loathsome caue.\nMy tongue should stumble in mine earnest words,\nMine eyes should sparkle like the beaten Flint,\nMine haire be fixt an end, as one distract:\nI, euery ioynt should seeme to curse and ban,\nAnd euen now my burthen'd heart would breake\nShould I not curse them. Poyson be their drinke.\nGall, worse then Gall, the daintiest that they taste:\nTheir sweetest shade, a groue of Cypresse Trees:\nTheir cheefest Prospect, murd'ring Basiliskes:\nTheir softest Touch, as smart as Lyzards stings:\nTheir Musicke, frightfull as the Serpents hisse,\nAnd boading Screech-Owles, make the Consort full.\nAll the foule terrors in darke seated hell -\nQ. Enough sweet Suffolke, thou torment'st thy selfe,\nAnd these dread curses like the Sunne 'gainst glasse,\nOr like an ouer-charged Gun, recoile,\nAnd turnes the force of them vpon thy selfe\nSuf. You bad me ban, and will you bid me leaue?\nNow by the ground that I am banish'd from,\nWell could I curse away a Winters night,\nThough standing naked on a Mountaine top,\nWhere byting cold would neuer let grasse grow,\nAnd thinke it but a minute spent in sport\nQu. Oh, let me intreat thee cease, giue me thy hand,\nThat I may dew it with my mournfull teares:\nNor let the raine of heauen wet this place,\nTo wash away my wofull Monuments.\nOh, could this kisse be printed in thy hand,\nThat thou might'st thinke vpon these by the Seale,\nThrough whom a thousand sighes are breath'd for thee.\nSo get thee gone, that I may know my greefe,\n'Tis but surmiz'd, whiles thou art standing by,\nAs one that surfets, thinking on a want:\nI will repeale thee, or be well assur'd,\nAduenture to be banished my selfe:\nAnd banished I am, if but from thee.\nGo, speake not to me; euen now be gone.\nOh go not yet. Euen thus, two Friends condemn'd,\nEmbrace, and kisse, and take ten thousand leaues,\nLoather a hundred times to part then dye;\nYet now farewell, and farewell Life with thee\nSuf. Thus is poore Suffolke ten times banished,\nOnce by the King, and three times thrice by thee.\n'Tis not the Land I care for, wer't thou thence,\nA Wildernesse is populous enough,\nSo Suffolke had thy heauenly company:\nFor where thou art, there is the World it selfe,\nWith euery seuerall pleasure in the World:\nAnd where thou art not, Desolation.\nI can no more: Liue thou to ioy thy life;\nMy selfe no ioy in nought, but that thou liu'st.\nEnter Vaux.\nQueene. Whether goes Vaux so fast? What newes I\nprethee?\nVaux. To signifie vnto his Maiesty,\nThat Cardinal Beauford is at point of death:\nFor sodainly a greeuous sicknesse tooke him,\nThat makes him gaspe, and stare, and catch the aire,\nBlaspheming God, and cursing men on earth.\nSometime he talkes, as if Duke Humfries Ghost\nWere by his side: Sometime, he calles the King,\nAnd whispers to his pillow, as to him,\nThe secrets of his ouer-charged soule,\nAnd I am sent to tell his Maiestie,\nThat euen now he cries alowd for him\nQu. Go tell this heauy Message to the King.\nExit\nAye me! What is this World? What newes are these?\nBut wherefore greeue I at an houres poore losse,\nOmitting Suffolkes exile, my soules Treasure?\nWhy onely Suffolke mourne I not for thee?\nAnd with the Southerne clouds, contend in teares?\nTheirs for the earths encrease, mine for my sorrowes.\nNow get thee hence, the King thou know'st is comming,\nIf thou be found by me, thou art but dead\nSuf. If I depart from thee, I cannot liue,\nAnd in thy sight to dye, what were it else,\nBut like a pleasant slumber in thy lap?\nHeere could I breath my soule into the ayre,\nAs milde and gentle as the Cradle-babe,\nDying with mothers dugge betweene it's lips.\nWhere from thy sight, I should be raging mad,\nAnd cry out for thee to close vp mine eyes:\nTo haue thee with thy lippes to stop my mouth:\nSo should'st thou eyther turne my flying soule,\nOr I should breathe it so into thy body,\nAnd then it liu'd in sweete Elizium.\nTo dye by thee, were but to dye in iest,\nFrom thee to dye, were torture more then death:\nOh let me stay, befall what may befall\nQueen. Away: Though parting be a fretfull corosiue,\nIt is applyed to a deathfull wound.\nTo France sweet Suffolke: Let me heare from thee:\nFor wheresoere thou art in this worlds Globe,\nIle haue an Iris that shall finde thee out\nSuf. I go\nQu. And take my heart with thee\nSuf. A Iewell lockt into the wofulst Caske,\nThat euer did containe a thing of worth,\nEuen as a splitted Barke, so sunder we:\nThis way fall I to death\nQu. This way for me.\nExeunt.\nEnter the King, Salisbury, and Warwicke, to the Cardinal in bed.\nKing. How fare's my Lord? Speake Beauford to thy\nSoueraigne\nCa. If thou beest death, Ile giue thee Englands Treasure,\nEnough to purchase such another Island,\nSo thou wilt let me liue, and feele no paine\nKing. Ah, what a signe it is of euill life,\nWhere death's approach is seene so terrible\nWar. Beauford, it is thy Soueraigne speakes to thee\nBeau. Bring me vnto my Triall when you will.\nDy'de he not in his bed? Where should he dye?\nCan I make men liue where they will or no?\nOh torture me no more, I will confesse.\nAliue againe? Then shew me where he is,\nIle giue a thousand pound to looke vpon him.\nHe hath no eyes, the dust hath blinded them.\nCombe downe his haire; looke, looke, it stands vpright,\nLike Lime-twigs set to catch my winged soule:\nGiue me some drinke, and bid the Apothecarie\nBring the strong poyson that I bought of him\nKing. Oh thou eternall mouer of the heauens,\nLooke with a gentle eye vpon this Wretch,\nOh beate away the busie medling Fiend,\nThat layes strong siege vnto this wretches soule,\nAnd from his bosome purge this blacke dispaire\nWar. See how the pangs of death do make him grin\nSal. Disturbe him not, let him passe peaceably\nKing. Peace to his soule, if Gods good pleasure be.\nLord Card'nall, if thou think'st on heauens blisse,\nHold vp thy hand, make signall of thy hope.\nHe dies and makes no signe: Oh God forgiue him\nWar. So bad a death, argues a monstrous life\nKing. Forbeare to iudge, for we are sinners all.\nClose vp his eyes, and draw the Curtaine close,\nAnd let vs all to Meditation.\nExeunt.\nAlarum. Fight at Sea. Ordnance goes off.\nEnter Lieutenant, Suffolke, and others.\nLieu. The gaudy blabbing and remorsefull day,\nIs crept into the bosome of the Sea:\nAnd now loud houling Wolues arouse the Iades\nThat dragge the Tragicke melancholy night:\nWho with their drowsie, slow, and flagging wings\nCleape dead-mens graues, and from their misty Iawes,\nBreath foule contagious darknesse in the ayre:\nTherefore bring forth the Souldiers of our prize,\nFor whilst our Pinnace Anchors in the Downes,\nHeere shall they make their ransome on the sand,\nOr with their blood staine this discoloured shore.\nMaister, this Prisoner freely giue I thee,\nAnd thou that art his Mate, make boote of this:\nThe other Walter Whitmore is thy share\n1.Gent. What is my ransome Master, let me know\nMa. A thousand Crownes, or else lay down your head\nMate. And so much shall you giue, or off goes yours\nLieu. What thinke you much to pay 2000. Crownes,\nAnd beare the name and port of Gentlemen?\nCut both the Villaines throats, for dy you shall:\nThe liues of those which we haue lost in fight,\nBe counter-poys'd with such a pettie summe\n1.Gent. Ile giue it sir, and therefore spare my life\n2.Gent. And so will I, and write home for it straight\nWhitm. I lost mine eye in laying the prize aboord,\nAnd therefore to reuenge it, shalt thou dye,\nAnd so should these, if I might haue my will\nLieu. Be not so rash, take ransome, let him liue\nSuf. Looke on my George, I am a Gentleman,\nRate me at what thou wilt, thou shalt be payed\nWhit. And so am I: my name is Walter Whitmore.\nHow now? why starts thou? What doth death affright?\nSuf. Thy name affrights me, in whose sound is death:\nA cunning man did calculate my birth,\nAnd told me that by Water I should dye:\nYet let not this make thee be bloody-minded,\nThy name is Gualtier, being rightly sounded\nWhit. Gualtier or Walter, which it is I care not,\nNeuer yet did base dishonour blurre our name,\nBut with our sword we wip'd away the blot.\nTherefore, when Merchant-like I sell reuenge,\nBroke be my sword, my Armes torne and defac'd,\nAnd I proclaim'd a Coward through the world\nSuf. Stay Whitmore, for thy Prisoner is a Prince,\nThe Duke of Suffolke, William de la Pole\nWhit. The Duke of Suffolke, muffled vp in ragges?\nSuf. I, but these ragges are no part of the Duke\nLieu. But Ioue was neuer slaine as thou shalt be,\nObscure and lowsie Swaine, King Henries blood\nSuf. The honourable blood of Lancaster\nMust not be shed by such a iaded Groome:\nHast thou not kist thy hand, and held my stirrop?\nBare-headed plodded by my foot-cloth Mule,\nAnd thought thee happy when I shooke my head.\nHow often hast thou waited at my cup,\nFed from my Trencher, kneel'd downe at the boord,\nWhen I haue feasted with Queene Margaret?\nRemember it, and let it make thee Crest-falne,\nI, and alay this thy abortiue Pride:\nHow in our voyding Lobby hast thou stood,\nAnd duly wayted for my comming forth?\nThis hand of mine hath writ in thy behalfe,\nAnd therefore shall it charme thy riotous tongue\nWhit. Speak Captaine, shall I stab the forlorn Swain\nLieu. First let my words stab him, as he hath me\nSuf. Base slaue, thy words are blunt, and so art thou\nLieu. Conuey him hence, and on our long boats side,\nStrike off his head\nSuf. Thou dar'st not for thy owne\nLieu. Poole, Sir Poole? Lord,\nI kennell, puddle, sinke, whose filth and dirt\nTroubles the siluer Spring, where England drinkes:\nNow will I dam vp this thy yawning mouth,\nFor swallowing the Treasure of the Realme.\nThy lips that kist the Queene, shall sweepe the ground:\nAnd thou that smil'dst at good Duke Humfries death,\nAgainst the senselesse windes shall grin in vaine,\nWho in contempt shall hisse at thee againe.\nAnd wedded be thou to the Hagges of hell,\nFor daring to affye a mighty Lord\nVnto the daughter of a worthlesse King,\nHauing neyther Subiect, Wealth, nor Diadem:\nBy diuellish policy art thou growne great,\nAnd like ambitious Sylla ouer-gorg'd,\nWith gobbets of thy Mother-bleeding heart.\nBy thee Aniou and Maine were sold to France.\nThe false reuolting Normans thorough thee,\nDisdaine to call vs Lord, and Piccardie\nHath slaine their Gouernors, surpriz'd our Forts,\nAnd sent the ragged Souldiers wounded home.\nThe Princely Warwicke, and the Neuils all,\nWhose dreadfull swords were neuer drawne in vaine,\nAs hating thee, and rising vp in armes.\nAnd now the House of Yorke thrust from the Crowne,\nBy shamefull murther of a guiltlesse King,\nAnd lofty proud incroaching tyranny,\nBurnes with reuenging fire, whose hopefull colours\nAduance our halfe-fac'd Sunne, striuing to shine;\nVnder the which is writ, Inuitis nubibus.\nThe Commons heere in Kent are vp in armes,\nAnd to conclude, Reproach and Beggerie,\nIs crept into the Pallace of our King,\nAnd all by thee: away, conuey him hence\nSuf. O that I were a God, to shoot forth Thunder\nVpon these paltry, seruile, abiect Drudges:\nSmall things make base men proud. This Villaine heere,\nBeing Captaine of a Pinnace, threatens more\nThen Bargulus the strong Illyrian Pyrate.\nDrones sucke not Eagles blood, but rob Bee-hiues:\nIt is impossible that I should dye\nBy such a lowly Vassall as thy selfe.\nThy words moue Rage, and not remorse in me:\nI go of Message from the Queene to France:\nI charge thee waft me safely crosse the Channell\nLieu. Water:\nW. Come Suffolke, I must waft thee\nto thy death\nSuf. Pine gelidus timor occupat artus, it is thee I feare\nWal. Thou shalt haue cause to feare before I leaue thee.\nWhat, are ye danted now? Now will ye stoope\n1.Gent. My gracious Lord intreat him, speak him fair\nSuf. Suffolkes Imperiall tongue is sterne and rough:\nVs'd to command, vntaught to pleade for fauour.\nFarre be it, we should honor such as these\nWith humble suite: no, rather let my head\nStoope to the blocke, then these knees bow to any,\nSaue to the God of heauen, and to my King:\nAnd sooner dance vpon a bloody pole,\nThen stand vncouer'd to the Vulgar Groome.\nTrue Nobility, is exempt from feare:\nMore can I beare, then you dare execute\nLieu. Hale him away, and let him talke no more:\nCome Souldiers, shew what cruelty ye can\nSuf. That this my death may neuer be forgot.\nGreat men oft dye by vilde Bezonions.\nA Romane Sworder, and Bandetto slaue\nMurder'd sweet Tully. Brutus Bastard hand\nStab'd Iulius C\u00e6sar. Sauage Islanders\nPompey the Great, and Suffolke dyes by Pyrats.\nExit Water with Suffolke.\nLieu. And as for these whose ransome we haue set,\nIt is our pleasure one of them depart:\nTherefore come you with vs, and let him go.\nExit Lieutenant, and the rest.\nManet the first Gent. Enter Walter with the body.\nWal. There let his head, and liuelesse bodie lye,\nVntill the Queene his Mistris bury it.\nExit Walter\n1.Gent. O barbarous and bloudy spectacle,\nHis body will I beare vnto the King:\nIf he reuenge it not, yet will his Friends,\nSo will the Queene, that liuing, held him deere.\nEnter Beuis, and Iohn Holland.\nBeuis. Come and get thee a sword, though made of a\nLath, they haue bene vp these two dayes\nHol. They haue the more neede to sleepe now then\nBeuis. I tell thee, Iacke Cade the Cloathier, meanes to\ndresse the Common-wealth and turne it, and set a new\nnap vpon it\nHol. So he had need, for 'tis thred-bare. Well, I say,\nit was neuer merrie world in England, since Gentlemen\ncame vp\nBeuis. O miserable Age: Vertue is not regarded in\nHandy-crafts men\nHol. The Nobilitie thinke scorne to goe in Leather\nAprons\nBeuis. Nay more, the Kings Councell are no good\nWorkemen\nHol. True: and yet it is said, Labour in thy Vocation:\nwhich is as much to say, as let the Magistrates be labouring\nmen, and therefore should we be Magistrates\nBeuis. Thou hast hit it: for there's no better signe of a\nbraue minde, then a hard hand\nHol. I see them, I see them: There's Bests Sonne, the\nTanner of Wingham\nBeuis. Hee shall haue the skinnes of our enemies, to\nmake Dogges Leather of\nHol. And Dicke the Butcher\nBeuis. Then is sin strucke downe like an Oxe, and iniquities\nthroate cut like a Calfe\nHol. And Smith the Weauer\nBeu. Argo, their thred of life is spun\nHol. Come, come, let's fall in with them.\nDrumme. Enter Cade, Dicke Butcher, Smith the Weauer, and a\nSawyer, with\ninfinite numbers.\nCade. Wee Iohn Cade, so tearm'd of our supposed Father\nBut. Or rather of stealing a Cade of Herrings\nCade. For our enemies shall faile before vs, inspired\nwith the spirit of putting down Kings and Princes. Command\nsilence\nBut. Silence\nCade. My Father was a Mortimer\nBut. He was an honest man, and a good Bricklayer\nCade. My mother a Plantagenet\nButch. I knew her well, she was a Midwife\nCade. My wife descended of the Lacies\nBut. She was indeed a Pedlers daughter, & sold many\nLaces\nWeauer. But now of late, not able to trauell with her\nfurr'd Packe, she washes buckes here at home\nCade. Therefore am I of an honorable house\nBut. I by my faith, the field is honourable, and there\nwas he borne, vnder a hedge: for his Father had neuer a\nhouse but the Cage\nCade. Valiant I am\nWeauer. A must needs, for beggery is valiant\nCade. I am able to endure much\nBut. No question of that: for I haue seene him whipt\nthree Market dayes together\nCade. I feare neither sword, nor fire\nWea. He neede not feare the sword, for his Coate is of\nproofe\nBut. But me thinks he should stand in feare of fire, being\nburnt i'th hand for stealing of Sheepe\nCade. Be braue then, for your Captaine is Braue, and\nVowes Reformation. There shall be in England, seuen\nhalfe peny Loaues sold for a peny: the three hoop'd pot,\nshall haue ten hoopes, and I wil make it Fellony to drink\nsmall Beere. All the Realme shall be in Common, and in\nCheapside shall my Palfrey go to grasse: and when I am\nKing, as King I will be\nAll. God saue your Maiesty\nCade. I thanke you good people. There shall bee no\nmony, all shall eate and drinke on my score, and I will\napparrell them all in one Liuery, that they may agree like\nBrothers, and worship me their Lord\nBut. The first thing we do, let's kill all the Lawyers\nCade. Nay, that I meane to do. Is not this a lamentable\nthing, that of the skin of an innocent Lambe should\nbe made Parchment; that Parchment being scribeld ore,\nshould vndoe a man. Some say the Bee stings, but I say,\n'tis the Bees waxe: for I did but seale once to a thing, and\nI was neuer mine owne man since. How now? Who's\nthere?\nEnter a Clearke.\nWeauer. The Clearke of Chartam: hee can write and\nreade, and cast accompt\nCade. O monstrous\nWea. We tooke him setting of boyes Copies\nCade. Here's a Villaine\nWea. Ha's a Booke in his pocket with red Letters in't\nCade. Nay then he is a Coniurer\nBut. Nay, he can make Obligations, and write Court\nhand\nCade. I am sorry for't: The man is a proper man of\nmine Honour: vnlesse I finde him guilty he shall not die.\nCome hither sirrah, I must examine thee: What is thy\nname?\nClearke. Emanuell\nBut. They vse to writ it on the top of Letters: 'Twill\ngo hard with you\nCade. Let me alone: Dost thou vse to write thy name?\nOr hast thou a marke to thy selfe, like a honest plain dealing\nman?\nClearke. Sir I thanke God, I haue bin so well brought\nvp, that I can write my name\nAll. He hath confest: away with him: he's a Villaine\nand a Traitor\nCade. Away with him I say: Hang him with his Pen\nand Inke-horne about his necke.\nExit one with the Clearke\nEnter Michael.\nMich. Where's our Generall?\nCade. Heere I am thou particular fellow\nMich. Fly, fly, fly, Sir Humfrey Stafford and his brother\nare hard by, with the Kings Forces\nCade. Stand villaine, stand, or Ile fell thee downe: he\nshall be encountred with a man as good as himselfe. He\nis but a Knight, is a?\nMich. No\nCade. To equall him I will make my selfe a knight, presently;\nRise vp Sir Iohn Mortimer. Now haue at him.\nEnter Sir Humfrey Stafford, and his Brother, with Drum and\nSoldiers.\nStaf. Rebellious Hinds, the filth and scum of Kent,\nMark'd for the Gallowes: Lay your Weapons downe,\nHome to your Cottages: forsake this Groome.\nThe King is mercifull, if you reuolt\nBro. But angry, wrathfull, and inclin'd to blood,\nIf you go forward: therefore yeeld, or dye\nCade. As for these silken-coated slaues I passe not,\nIt is to you good people, that I speake,\nOuer whom (in time to come) I hope to raigne:\nFor I am rightfull heyre vnto the Crowne\nStaff. Villaine, thy Father was a Playsterer,\nAnd thou thy selfe a Sheareman, art thou not?\nCade. And Adam was a Gardiner\nBro. And what of that?\nCade. Marry, this Edmund Mortimer Earle of March,\nmarried the Duke of Clarence daughter, did he not?\nStaf. I sir\nCade. By her he had two children at one birth\nBro. That's false\nCade. I, there's the question; But I say, 'tis true:\nThe elder of them being put to nurse,\nWas by a begger-woman stolne away,\nAnd ignorant of his birth and parentage,\nBecame a Bricklayer, when he came to age.\nHis sonne am I, deny it if you can\nBut. Nay, 'tis too true, therefore he shall be King\nWea. Sir, he made a Chimney in my Fathers house, &\nthe brickes are aliue at this day to testifie it: therefore\ndeny it not\nStaf. And will you credit this base Drudges Wordes,\nthat speakes he knowes not what\nAll. I marry will we: therefore get ye gone\nBro. Iacke Cade, the D[uke]. of York hath taught you this\nCade. He lyes, for I inuented it my selfe. Go too Sirrah,\ntell the King from me, that for his Fathers sake Henry\nthe fift, (in whose time, boyes went to Span-counter\nfor French Crownes) I am content he shall raigne, but Ile\nbe Protector ouer him\nButcher. And furthermore, wee'l haue the Lord Sayes\nhead, for selling the Dukedome of Maine\nCade And good reason: for thereby is England main'd\nAnd faine to go with a staffe, but that my puissance holds\nit vp. Fellow-Kings, I tell you, that that Lord Say hath\ngelded the Commonwealth, and made it an Eunuch: &\nmore then that, he can speake French, and therefore hee is\na Traitor\nStaf. O grosse and miserable ignorance\nCade. Nay answer if you can: The Frenchmen are our\nenemies: go too then, I ask but this: Can he that speaks\nwith the tongue of an enemy, be a good Councellour, or\nno?\nAll. No, no, and therefore wee'l haue his head\nBro. Well, seeing gentle words will not preuayle,\nAssaile them with the Army of the King\nStaf. Herald away, and throughout euery Towne,\nProclaime them Traitors that are vp with Cade,\nThat those which flye before the battell ends,\nMay euen in their Wiues and Childrens sight,\nBe hang'd vp for example at their doores:\nAnd you that be the Kings Friends follow me.\nEnter.\nCade. And you that loue the Commons, follow me:\nNow shew your selues men, 'tis for Liberty.\nWe will not leaue one Lord, one Gentleman:\nSpare none, but such as go in clouted shooen,\nFor they are thrifty honest men, and such\nAs would (but that they dare not) take our parts\nBut. They are all in order, and march toward vs\nCade. But then are we in order, when we are most out\nof order. Come, march forward.\nAlarums to the fight, wherein both the Staffords are slaine. Enter\nCade\nand the rest.\nCade. Where's Dicke, the Butcher of Ashford?\nBut. Heere sir\nCade. They fell before thee like Sheepe and Oxen, &\nthou behaued'st thy selfe, as if thou hadst beene in thine\nowne Slaughter-house: Therfore thus will I reward thee,\nthe Lent shall bee as long againe as it is, and thou shalt\nhaue a License to kill for a hundred lacking one\nBut. I desire no more\nCade. And to speake truth, thou deseru'st no lesse.\nThis Monument of the victory will I beare, and the bodies\nshall be dragg'd at my horse heeles, till I do come to\nLondon, where we will haue the Maiors sword born before\nvs\nBut. If we meane to thriue, and do good, breake open\nthe Gaoles, and let out the Prisoners\nCade. Feare not that I warrant thee. Come, let's march\ntowards London.\nExeunt.\nEnter the King with a Supplication, and the Queene with Suffolkes\nhead,\nthe Duke of Buckingham, and the Lord Say.\nQueene. Oft haue I heard that greefe softens the mind,\nAnd makes it fearefull and degenerate,\nThinke therefore on reuenge, and cease to weepe.\nBut who can cease to weepe, and looke on this.\nHeere may his head lye on my throbbing brest:\nBut where's the body that I should imbrace?\nBuc. What answer makes your Grace to the Rebells\nSupplication?\nKing. Ile send some holy Bishop to intreat:\nFor God forbid, so many simple soules\nShould perish by the Sword. And I my selfe,\nRather then bloody Warre shall cut them short,\nWill parley with Iacke Cade their Generall.\nBut stay, Ile read it ouer once againe\nQu. Ah barbarous villaines: Hath this louely face,\nRul'd like a wandering Plannet ouer me,\nAnd could it not inforce them to relent,\nThat were vnworthy to behold the same\nKing. Lord Say, Iacke Cade hath sworne to haue thy\nhead\nSay. I, but I hope your Highnesse shall haue his\nKing. How now Madam?\nStill lamenting and mourning for Suffolkes death?\nI feare me (Loue) if that I had beene dead,\nThou would'st not haue mourn'd so much for me\nQu. No my Loue, I should not mourne, but dye for\nthee.\nEnter a Messenger.\nKing. How now? What newes? Why com'st thou in\nsuch haste?\nMes. The Rebels are in Southwarke: Fly my Lord:\nIacke Cade proclaimes himselfe Lord Mortimer,\nDescended from the Duke of Clarence house,\nAnd calles your Grace Vsurper, openly,\nAnd vowes to Crowne himselfe in Westminster.\nHis Army is a ragged multitude\nOf Hindes and Pezants, rude and mercilesse:\nSir Humfrey Stafford, and his Brothers death,\nHath giuen them heart and courage to proceede:\nAll Schollers, Lawyers, Courtiers, Gentlemen,\nThey call false Catterpillers, and intend their death\nKin. Oh gracelesse men: they know not what they do\nBuck. My gracious Lord, retire to Killingworth,\nVntill a power be rais'd to put them downe\nQu. Ah were the Duke of Suffolke now aliue,\nThese Kentish Rebels would be soone appeas'd\nKing. Lord Say, the Traitors hateth thee,\nTherefore away with vs to Killingworth\nSay. So might your Graces person be in danger.\nThe sight of me is odious in their eyes:\nAnd therefore in this Citty will I stay,\nAnd liue alone as secret as I may.\nEnter another Messenger.\nMess. Iacke Cade hath gotten London-bridge.\nThe Citizens flye and forsake their houses:\nThe Rascall people, thirsting after prey,\nIoyne with the Traitor, and they ioyntly sweare\nTo spoyle the City, and your Royall Court\nBuc. Then linger not my Lord, away, take horse\nKing. Come Margaret, God our hope will succor vs\nQu. My hope is gone, now Suffolke is deceast\nKing. Farewell my Lord, trust not the Kentish Rebels\nBuc. Trust no body for feare you betraid\nSay. The trust I haue, is in mine innocence,\nAnd therefore am I bold and resolute.\nExeunt.\nEnter Lord Scales vpon the Tower walking. Then enters two or\nthree\nCitizens below.\nScales. How now? Is Iacke Cade slaine?\n1.Cit. No my Lord, nor likely to be slaine:\nFor they haue wonne the Bridge,\nKilling all those that withstand them:\nThe L[ord]. Maior craues ayd of your Honor from the Tower\nTo defend the City from the Rebels\nScales. Such ayd as I can spare you shall command,\nBut I am troubled heere with them my selfe,\nThe Rebels haue assay'd to win the Tower.\nBut get you to Smithfield, and gather head,\nAnd thither I will send you Mathew Goffe.\nFight for your King, your Countrey, and your Liues,\nAnd so farwell, for I must hence againe.\nExeunt.\nEnter Iacke Cade and the rest, and strikes his staffe on London\nstone.\nCade. Now is Mortimer Lord of this City,\nAnd heere sitting vpon London Stone,\nI charge and command, that of the Cities cost\nThe pissing Conduit run nothing but Clarret Wine\nThis first yeare of our raigne.\nAnd now henceforward it shall be Treason for any,\nThat calles me other then Lord Mortimer.\nEnter a Soldier running.\nSoul. Iacke Cade, Iacke Cade\nCade. Knocke him downe there.\nThey kill him.\nBut. If this Fellow be wise, hee'l neuer call yee Iacke\nCade more, I thinke he hath a very faire warning\nDicke. My Lord, there's an Army gathered together\nin Smithfield\nCade. Come, then let's go fight with them:\nBut first, go and set London Bridge on fire,\nAnd if you can, burne downe the Tower too.\nCome, let's away.\nExeunt. omnes.\nAlarums. Mathew Goffe is slain, and all the rest. Then enter Iacke\nCade,\nwith his Company.\nCade. So sirs: now go some and pull down the Sauoy:\nOthers to'th Innes of Court, downe with them all\nBut. I haue a suite vnto your Lordship\nCade. Bee it a Lordshippe, thou shalt haue it for that\nword\nBut. Onely that the Lawes of England may come out\nof your mouth\nIohn. Masse 'twill be sore Law then, for he was thrust\nin the mouth with a Speare, and 'tis not whole yet\nSmith. Nay Iohn, it wil be stinking Law, for his breath\nstinkes with eating toasted cheese\nCade. I haue thought vpon it, it shall bee so. Away,\nburne all the Records of the Realme, my mouth shall be\nthe Parliament of England\nIohn. Then we are like to haue biting Statutes\nVnlesse his teeth be pull'd out\nCade. And hence-forward all things shall be in Common.\nEnter a Messenger.\nMes. My Lord, a prize, a prize, heeres the Lord Say,\nwhich sold the Townes in France. He that made vs pay\none and twenty Fifteenes, and one shilling to the pound,\nthe last Subsidie.\nEnter George, with the Lord Say.\nCade. Well, hee shall be beheaded for it ten times:\nAh thou Say, thou Surge, nay thou Buckram Lord, now\nart thou within point-blanke of our Iurisdiction Regall.\nWhat canst thou answer to my Maiesty, for giuing vp of\nNormandie vnto Mounsieur Basimecu, the Dolphine of\nFrance? Be it knowne vnto thee by these presence, euen\nthe presence of Lord Mortimer, that I am the Beesome\nthat must sweepe the Court cleane of such filth as thou\nart: Thou hast most traiterously corrupted the youth of\nthe Realme, in erecting a Grammar Schoole: and whereas\nbefore, our Fore-fathers had no other Bookes but the\nScore and the Tally, thou hast caused printing to be vs'd,\nand contrary to the King, his Crowne, and Dignity, thou\nhast built a Paper-Mill. It will be prooued to thy Face,\nthat thou hast men about thee, that vsually talke of a\nNowne and a Verbe, and such abhominable wordes, as\nno Christian eare can endure to heare. Thou hast appointed\nIustices of Peace, to call poore men before them, about\nmatters they were not able to answer. Moreouer,\nthou hast put them in prison, and because they could not\nreade, thou hast hang'd them, when (indeede) onely for\nthat cause they haue beene most worthy to liue. Thou\ndost ride in a foot-cloth, dost thou not?\nSay. What of that?\nCade. Marry, thou ought'st not to let thy horse weare\na Cloake, when honester men then thou go in their Hose\nand Doublets\nDicke. And worke in their shirt to, as my selfe for example,\nthat am a butcher\nSay. You men of Kent\nDic. What say you of Kent\nSay. Nothing but this: 'Tis bona terra, mala gens\nCade. Away with him, away with him, he speaks Latine\nSay. Heare me but speake, and beare mee wher'e you\nwill:\nKent, in the Commentaries C\u00e6sar writ,\nIs term'd the ciuel'st place of all this Isle:\nSweet is the Country, because full of Riches,\nThe People Liberall, Valiant, Actiue, Wealthy,\nWhich makes me hope you are not void of pitty.\nI sold not Maine, I lost not Normandie,\nYet to recouer them would loose my life:\nIustice with fauour haue I alwayes done,\nPrayres and Teares haue mou'd me, Gifts could neuer.\nWhen haue I ought exacted at your hands?\nKent to maintaine, the King, the Realme and you,\nLarge gifts haue I bestow'd on learned Clearkes,\nBecause my Booke preferr'd me to the King.\nAnd seeing Ignorance is the curse of God,\nKnowledge the Wing wherewith we flye to heauen.\nVnlesse you be possest with diuellish spirits,\nYou cannot but forbeare to murther me:\nThis Tongue hath parlied vnto Forraigne Kings\nFor your behoofe\nCade. Tut, when struck'st thou one blow in the field?\nSay. Great men haue reaching hands: oft haue I struck\nThose that I neuer saw, and strucke them dead\nGeo. O monstrous Coward! What, to come behinde\nFolkes?\nSay. These cheekes are pale for watching for your good\nCade. Giue him a box o'th' eare, and that wil make 'em\nred againe\nSay. Long sitting to determine poore mens causes,\nHath made me full of sicknesse and diseases\nCade. Ye shall haue a hempen Candle then, & the help\nof hatchet\nDicke. Why dost thou quiuer man?\nSay. The Palsie, and not feare prouokes me\nCade. Nay, he noddes at vs, as who should say, Ile be\neuen with you. Ile see if his head will stand steddier on\na pole, or no: Take him away, and behead him\nSay. Tell me: wherein haue I offended most?\nHaue I affected wealth, or honor? Speake.\nAre my Chests fill'd vp with extorted Gold?\nIs my Apparrell sumptuous to behold?\nWhom haue I iniur'd, that ye seeke my death?\nThese hands are free from guiltlesse bloodshedding,\nThis breast from harbouring foule deceitfull thoughts.\nO let me liue\nCade. I feele remorse in my selfe with his words: but\nIle bridle it: he shall dye, and it bee but for pleading so\nwell for his life. Away with him, he ha's a Familiar vnder\nhis Tongue, he speakes not a Gods name. Goe, take\nhim away I say, and strike off his head presently, and then\nbreake into his Sonne in Lawes house, Sir Iames Cromer,\nand strike off his head, and bring them both vppon two\npoles hither\nAll. It shall be done\nSay. Ah Countrimen: If when you make your prair's,\nGod should be so obdurate as your selues:\nHow would it fare with your departed soules,\nAnd therefore yet relent, and saue my life\nCade. Away with him, and do as I command ye: the\nproudest Peere in the Realme, shall not weare a head on\nhis shoulders, vnlesse he pay me tribute: there shall not\na maid be married, but she shall pay to me her Maydenhead\nere they haue it: Men shall hold of mee in Capite.\nAnd we charge and command, that their wiues be as free\nas heart can wish, or tongue can tell\nDicke. My Lord,\nWhen shall we go to Cheapside, and take vp commodities\nvpon our billes?\nCade. Marry presently\nAll. O braue.\nEnter one with the heads.\nCade. But is not this brauer:\nLet them kisse one another: For they lou'd well\nWhen they were aliue. Now part them againe,\nLeast they consult about the giuing vp\nOf some more Townes in France. Soldiers,\nDeferre the spoile of the Citie vntill night:\nFor with these borne before vs, in steed of Maces,\nWill we ride through the streets, & at euery Corner\nHaue them kisse. Away.\nExit\nAlarum, and Retreat. Enter againe Cade, and all his rabblement.\nCade. Vp Fish-streete, downe Saint Magnes corner,\nkill and knocke downe, throw them into Thames:\nSound a parley.\nWhat noise is this I heare?\nDare any be so bold to sound Retreat or Parley\nWhen I command them kill?\nEnter Buckingham, and old Clifford.\nBuc. I heere they be, that dare and will disturb thee:\nKnow Cade, we come Ambassadors from the King\nVnto the Commons, whom thou hast misled,\nAnd heere pronounce free pardon to them all,\nThat will forsake thee, and go home in peace\nClif. What say ye Countrimen, will ye relent\nAnd yeeld to mercy, whil'st 'tis offered you,\nOr let a rabble leade you to your deaths.\nWho loues the King, and will imbrace his pardon,\nFling vp his cap, and say, God saue his Maiesty.\nWho hateth him, and honors not his Father,\nHenry the fift, that made all France to quake,\nShake he his weapon at vs, and passe by\nAll. God saue the King, God saue the King\nCade. What Buckingham and Clifford are ye so braue?\nAnd you base Pezants, do ye beleeue him, will you needs\nbe hang'd with your Pardons about your neckes? Hath\nmy sword therefore broke through London gates, that\nyou should leaue me at the White-heart in Southwarke.\nI thought ye would neuer haue giuen out these Armes til\nyou had recouered your ancient Freedome. But you are\nall Recreants and Dastards, and delight to liue in slauerie\nto the Nobility. Let them breake your backes with burthens,\ntake your houses ouer your heads, rauish your\nWiues and Daughters before your faces. For me, I will\nmake shift for one, and so Gods Cursse light vppon you\nall\nAll. Wee'l follow Cade,\nWee'l follow Cade\nClif. Is Cade the sonne of Henry the fift,\nThat thus you do exclaime you'l go with him.\nWill he conduct you through the heart of France,\nAnd make the meanest of you Earles and Dukes?\nAlas, he hath no home, no place to flye too:\nNor knowes he how to liue, but by the spoile,\nVnlesse by robbing of your Friends, and vs.\nWer't not a shame, that whilst you liue at iarre,\nThe fearfull French, whom you late vanquished\nShould make a start ore-seas, and vanquish you?\nMe thinkes alreadie in this ciuill broyle,\nI see them Lording it in London streets,\nCrying Villiago vnto all they meete.\nBetter ten thousand base-borne Cades miscarry,\nThen you should stoope vnto a Frenchmans mercy.\nTo France, to France, and get what you haue lost:\nSpare England, for it is your Natiue Coast:\nHenry hath mony, you are strong and manly:\nGod on our side, doubt not of Victorie\nAll. A Clifford, a Clifford,\nWee'l follow the King, and Clifford\nCade. Was euer Feather so lightly blowne too & fro,\nas this multitude? The name of Henry the fift, hales them\nto an hundred mischiefes, and makes them leaue mee desolate.\nI see them lay their heades together to surprize\nme. My sword make way for me, for heere is no staying:\nin despight of the diuels and hell, haue through the verie\nmiddest of you, and heauens and honor be witnesse, that\nno want of resolution in mee, but onely my Followers\nbase and ignominious treasons, makes me betake mee to\nmy heeles.\nExit\nBuck. What, is he fled? Go some and follow him,\nAnd he that brings his head vnto the King,\nShall haue a thousand Crownes for his reward.\nExeunt. some of them.\nFollow me souldiers, wee'l deuise a meane,\nTo reconcile you all vnto the King.\nExeunt. omnes.\nSound Trumpets. Enter King, Queene, and Somerset on the Tarras.\nKing. Was euer King that ioy'd an earthly Throne,\nAnd could command no more content then I?\nNo sooner was I crept out of my Cradle,\nBut I was made a King, at nine months olde.\nWas neuer Subiect long'd to be a King,\nAs I do long and wish to be a Subiect.\nEnter Buckingham and Clifford.\nBuc. Health and glad tydings to your Maiesty\nKin. Why Buckingham, is the Traitor Cade surpris'd?\nOr is he but retir'd to make him strong?\nEnter Multitudes with Halters about their Neckes\nClif. He is fled my Lord, and all his powers do yeeld,\nAnd humbly thus with halters on their neckes,\nExpect your Highnesse doome of life, or death\nKing. Then heauen set ope thy euerlasting gates,\nTo entertaine my vowes of thankes and praise.\nSouldiers, this day haue you redeem'd your liues,\nAnd shew'd how well you loue your Prince & Countrey:\nContinue still in this so good a minde,\nAnd Henry though he be infortunate,\nAssure your selues will neuer be vnkinde:\nAnd so with thankes, and pardon to you all,\nI do dismisse you to your seuerall Countries\nAll. God saue the King, God saue the King.\nEnter a Messenger.\nMes. Please it your Grace to be aduertised,\nThe Duke of Yorke is newly come from Ireland,\nAnd with a puissant and a mighty power\nOf Gallow-glasses and stout Kernes,\nIs marching hitherward in proud array,\nAnd still proclaimeth as he comes along,\nHis Armes are onely to remoue from thee\nThe Duke of Somerset, whom he tearmes a Traitor\nKing. Thus stands my state, 'twixt Cade and Yorke\ndistrest,\nLike to a Ship, that hauing scap'd a Tempest,\nIs straight way calme, and boorded with a Pyrate.\nBut now is Cade driuen backe, his men dispierc'd,\nAnd now is Yorke in Armes, to second him.\nI pray thee Buckingham go and meete him,\nAnd aske him what's the reason of these Armes:\nTell him, Ile send Duke Edmund to the Tower,\nAnd Somerset we will commit thee thither,\nVntill his Army be dismist from him\nSomerset. My Lord,\nIle yeelde my selfe to prison willingly,\nOr vnto death, to do my Countrey good\nKing. In any case, be not to rough in termes,\nFor he is fierce, and cannot brooke hard Language\nBuc. I will my Lord, and doubt not so to deale,\nAs all things shall redound vnto your good\nKing. Come wife, let's in, and learne to gouern better,\nFor yet may England curse my wretched raigne.\nFlourish. Exeunt.\nEnter Cade.\nCade. Fye on Ambitions: fie on my selfe, that haue a\nsword, and yet am ready to famish. These fiue daies haue\nI hid me in these Woods, and durst not peepe out, for all\nthe Country is laid for me: but now am I so hungry, that\nif I might haue a Lease of my life for a thousand yeares, I\ncould stay no longer. Wherefore on a Bricke wall haue\nI climb'd into this Garden, to see if I can eate Grasse, or\npicke a Sallet another while, which is not amisse to coole\na mans stomacke this hot weather: and I think this word\nSallet was borne to do me good: for many a time but for\na Sallet, my brain-pan had bene cleft with a brown Bill;\nand many a time when I haue beene dry, & brauely marching,\nit hath seru'd me insteede of a quart pot to drinke\nin: and now the word Sallet must serue me to feed on.\nEnter Iden.\nIden. Lord, who would liue turmoyled in the Court,\nAnd may enioy such quiet walkes as these?\nThis small inheritance my Father left me,\nContenteth me, and worth a Monarchy.\nI seeke not to waxe great by others warning,\nOr gather wealth I care not with what enuy:\nSufficeth, that I haue maintaines my state,\nAnd sends the poore well pleased from my gate\nCade. Heere's the Lord of the soile come to seize me\nfor a stray, for entering his Fee-simple without leaue. A\nVillaine, thou wilt betray me, and get a 1000. Crownes\nof the King by carrying my head to him, but Ile make\nthee eate Iron like an Ostridge, and swallow my Sword\nlike a great pin ere thou and I part\nIden. Why rude Companion, whatsoere thou be,\nI know thee not, why then should I betray thee?\nIs't not enough to breake into my Garden,\nAnd like a Theefe to come to rob my grounds:\nClimbing my walles inspight of me the Owner,\nBut thou wilt braue me with these sawcie termes?\nCade. Braue thee? I by the best blood that euer was\nbroach'd, and beard thee to. Looke on mee well, I haue\neate no meate these fiue dayes, yet come thou and thy\nfiue men, and if I doe not leaue you all as dead as a doore\nnaile, I pray God I may neuer eate grasse more\nIden. Nay, it shall nere be said, while England stands,\nThat Alexander Iden an Esquire of Kent,\nTooke oddes to combate a poore famisht man.\nOppose thy stedfast gazing eyes to mine,\nSee if thou canst out-face me with thy lookes:\nSet limbe to limbe, and thou art farre the lesser:\nThy hand is but a finger to my fist,\nThy legge a sticke compared with this Truncheon,\nMy foote shall fight with all the strength thou hast,\nAnd if mine arme be heaued in the Ayre,\nThy graue is digg'd already in the earth:\nAs for words, whose greatnesse answer's words,\nLet this my sword report what speech forbeares\nCade. By my Valour: the most compleate Champion\nthat euer I heard. Steele, if thou turne the edge, or\ncut not out the burly bon'd Clowne in chines of Beefe,\nere thou sleepe in thy Sheath, I beseech Ioue on my knees\nthou mayst be turn'd to Hobnailes.\nHeere they Fight.\nO I am slaine, Famine and no other hath slaine me, let ten\nthousand diuelles come against me, and giue me but the\nten meales I haue lost, and I'de defie them all. Wither\nGarden, and be henceforth a burying place to all that do\ndwell in this house, because the vnconquered soule of\nCade is fled\nIden. Is't Cade that I haue slain, that monstrous traitor?\nSword, I will hallow thee for this thy deede,\nAnd hang thee o're my Tombe, when I am dead.\nNe're shall this blood be wiped from thy point,\nBut thou shalt weare it as a Heralds coate,\nTo emblaze the Honor that thy Master got\nCade. Iden farewell, and be proud of thy victory: Tell\nKent from me, she hath lost her best man, and exhort all\nthe World to be Cowards: For I that neuer feared any,\nam vanquished by Famine, not by Valour.\nDyes.\nId. How much thou wrong'st me, heauen be my iudge;\nDie damned Wretch, the curse of her that bare thee:\nAnd as I thrust thy body in with my sword,\nSo wish I, I might thrust thy soule to hell.\nHence will I dragge thee headlong by the heeles\nVnto a dunghill, which shall be thy graue,\nAnd there cut off thy most vngracious head,\nWhich I will beare in triumph to the King,\nLeauing thy trunke for Crowes to feed vpon.\nEnter.\nEnter Yorke, and his Army of Irish, with Drum and Colours.\nYor. From Ireland thus comes York to claim his right,\nAnd plucke the Crowne from feeble Henries head.\nRing Belles alowd, burne Bonfires cleare and bright\nTo entertaine great Englands lawfull King.\nAh Sancta Maiestas! who would not buy thee deere?\nLet them obey, that knowes not how to Rule.\nThis hand was made to handle nought but Gold.\nI cannot giue due action to my words,\nExcept a Sword or Scepter ballance it.\nA Scepter shall it haue, haue I a soule,\nOn which Ile tosse the Fleure-de-Luce of France.\nEnter Buckingham.\nWhom haue we heere? Buckingham to disturbe me?\nThe king hath sent him sure: I must dissemble\nBuc. Yorke, if thou meanest wel, I greet thee well\nYor. Humfrey of Buckingham, I accept thy greeting.\nArt thou a Messenger, or come of pleasure\nBuc. A Messenger from Henry, our dread Liege,\nTo know the reason of these Armes in peace.\nOr why, thou being a Subiect, as I am,\nAgainst thy Oath, and true Allegeance sworne,\nShould raise so great a power without his leaue?\nOr dare to bring thy Force so neere the Court?\nYor. Scarse can I speake, my Choller is so great.\nOh I could hew vp Rockes, and fight with Flint,\nI am so angry at these abiect tearmes.\nAnd now like Aiax Telamonius,\nOn Sheepe or Oxen could I spend my furie.\nI am farre better borne then is the king:\nMore like a King, more Kingly in my thoughts.\nBut I must make faire weather yet a while,\nTill Henry be more weake, and I more strong.\nBuckingham, I prethee pardon me,\nThat I haue giuen no answer all this while:\nMy minde was troubled with deepe Melancholly.\nThe cause why I haue brought this Armie hither,\nIs to remoue proud Somerset from the King,\nSeditious to his Grace, and to the State\nBuc. That is too much presumption on thy part:\nBut if thy Armes be to no other end,\nThe King hath yeelded vnto thy demand:\nThe Duke of Somerset is in the Tower\nYorke. Vpon thine Honor is he Prisoner?\nBuck. Vpon mine Honor he is Prisoner\nYorke. Then Buckingham I do dismisse my Powres.\nSouldiers, I thanke you all: disperse your selues:\nMeet me to morrow in S[aint]. Georges Field,\nYou shall haue pay, and euery thing you wish.\nAnd let my Soueraigne, vertuous Henry,\nCommand my eldest sonne, nay all my sonnes,\nAs pledges of my Fealtie and Loue,\nIle send them all as willing as I liue:\nLands, Goods, Horse, Armor, any thing I haue\nIs his to vse, so Somerset may die\nBuc. Yorke, I commend this kinde submission,\nWe twaine will go into his Highnesse Tent.\nEnter King and Attendants.\nKing. Buckingham, doth Yorke intend no harme to vs\nThat thus he marcheth with thee arme in arme?\nYorke. In all submission and humility,\nYorke doth present himselfe vnto your Highnesse\nK. Then what intends these Forces thou dost bring?\nYor. To heaue the Traitor Somerset from hence,\nAnd fight against that monstrous Rebell Cade,\nWho since I heard to be discomfited.\nEnter Iden with Cades head.\nIden. If one so rude, and of so meane condition\nMay passe into the presence of a King:\nLoe, I present your Grace a Traitors head,\nThe head of Cade, whom I in combat slew\nKing. The head of Cade? Great God, how iust art thou?\nOh let me view his Visage being dead,\nThat liuing wrought me such exceeding trouble.\nTell me my Friend, art thou the man that slew him?\nIden. I was, an't like your Maiesty\nKing. How art thou call'd? And what is thy degree?\nIden. Alexander Iden, that's my name,\nA poore Esquire of Kent, that loues his King\nBuc. So please it you my Lord, 'twere not amisse\nHe were created Knight for his good seruice\nKing. Iden, kneele downe, rise vp a Knight:\nWe giue thee for reward a thousand Markes,\nAnd will, that thou henceforth attend on vs\nIden. May Iden liue to merit such a bountie,\nAnd neuer liue but true vnto his Liege.\nEnter Queene and Somerset.\nK. See Buckingham, Somerset comes with th' Queene,\nGo bid her hide him quickly from the Duke\nQu. For thousand Yorkes he shall not hide his head,\nBut boldly stand, and front him to his face\nYor. How now? is Somerset at libertie?\nThen Yorke vnloose thy long imprisoned thoughts,\nAnd let thy tongue be equall with thy heart.\nShall I endure the sight of Somerset?\nFalse King, why hast thou broken faith with me,\nKnowing how hardly I can brooke abuse?\nKing did I call thee? No: thou art not King:\nNot fit to gouerne and rule multitudes,\nWhich dar'st not, no nor canst not rule a Traitor.\nThat Head of thine doth not become a Crowne:\nThy Hand is made to graspe a Palmers staffe,\nAnd not to grace an awefull Princely Scepter.\nThat Gold, must round engirt these browes of mine,\nWhose Smile and Frowne, like to Achilles Speare\nIs able with the change, to kill and cure.\nHeere is hand to hold a Scepter vp,\nAnd with the same to acte controlling Lawes:\nGiue place: by heauen thou shalt rule no more\nO're him, whom heauen created for thy Ruler\nSom. O monstrous Traitor! I arrest thee Yorke\nOf Capitall Treason 'gainst the King and Crowne:\nObey audacious Traitor, kneele for Grace\nYork. Wold'st haue me kneele? First let me ask of thee,\nIf they can brooke I bow a knee to man:\nSirrah, call in my sonne to be my bale:\nI know ere they will haue me go to Ward,\nThey'l pawne their swords of my infranchisement\nQu. Call hither Clifford, bid him come amaine,\nTo say, if that the Bastard boyes of Yorke\nShall be the Surety for their Traitor Father\nYorke. O blood-bespotted Neopolitan,\nOut-cast of Naples, Englands bloody Scourge,\nThe sonnes of Yorke, thy betters in their birth,\nShall be their Fathers baile, and bane to those\nThat for my Surety will refuse the Boyes.\nEnter Edward and Richard.\nSee where they come, Ile warrant they'l make it good.\nEnter Clifford.\nQu. And here comes Clifford to deny their baile\nClif. Health, and all happinesse to my Lord the King\nYor. I thanke thee Clifford: Say, what newes with thee?\nNay, do not fright vs with an angry looke:\nWe are thy Soueraigne Clifford, kneele againe;\nFor thy mistaking so, We pardon thee\nClif. This is my King Yorke, I do not mistake,\nBut thou mistakes me much to thinke I do,\nTo Bedlem with him, is the man growne mad\nKing. I Clifford, a Bedlem and ambitious humor\nMakes him oppose himselfe against his King\nClif. He is a Traitor, let him to the Tower,\nAnd chop away that factious pate of his\nQu. He is arrested, but will not obey:\nHis sonnes (he sayes) shall giue their words for him\nYor. Will you not Sonnes?\nEdw. I Noble Father, if our words will serue\nRich. And if words will not, then our Weapons shal\nClif. Why what a brood of Traitors haue we heere?\nYorke. Looke in a Glasse, and call thy Image so.\nI am thy King, and thou a false-heart Traitor:\nCall hither to the stake my two braue Beares,\nThat with the very shaking of their Chaines,\nThey may astonish these fell-lurking Curres,\nBid Salsbury and Warwicke come to me.\nEnter the Earles of Warwicke, and Salisbury.\nClif. Are these thy Beares? Wee'l bate thy Bears to death,\nAnd manacle the Berard in their Chaines,\nIf thou dar'st bring them to the bayting place\nRich. Oft haue I seene a hot ore-weening Curre,\nRun backe and bite, because he was with-held,\nWho being suffer'd with the Beares fell paw,\nHath clapt his taile, betweene his legges and cride,\nAnd such a peece of seruice will you do,\nIf you oppose your selues to match Lord Warwicke\nClif. Hence heape of wrath, foule indigested lumpe,\nAs crooked in thy manners, as thy shape\nYor. Nay we shall heate you thorowly anon\nClif. Take heede least by your heate you burne your\nselues:\nKing. Why Warwicke, hath thy knee forgot to bow?\nOld Salsbury, shame to thy siluer haire,\nThou mad misleader of thy brain-sicke sonne,\nWhat wilt thou on thy death-bed play the Ruffian?\nAnd seeke for sorrow with thy Spectacles?\nOh where is Faith? Oh, where is Loyalty?\nIf it be banisht from the frostie head,\nWhere shall it finde a harbour in the earth?\nWilt thou go digge a graue to finde out Warre,\nAnd shame thine honourable Age with blood?\nWhy art thou old, and want'st experience?\nOr wherefore doest abuse it, if thou hast it?\nFor shame in dutie bend thy knee to me,\nThat bowes vnto the graue with mickle age\nSal. My Lord, I haue considered with my selfe\nThe Title of this most renowned Duke,\nAnd in my conscience, do repute his grace\nThe rightfull heyre to Englands Royall seate\nKing. Hast thou not sworne Allegeance vnto me?\nSal. I haue\nKi. Canst thou dispense with heauen for such an oath?\nSal. It is great sinne, to sweare vnto a sinne:\nBut greater sinne to keepe a sinfull oath:\nWho can be bound by any solemne Vow\nTo do a murd'rous deede, to rob a man,\nTo force a spotlesse Virgins Chastitie,\nTo reaue the Orphan of his Patrimonie,\nTo wring the Widdow from her custom'd right,\nAnd haue no other reason for this wrong,\nBut that he was bound by a solemne Oath?\nQu. A subtle Traitor needs no Sophister\nKing. Call Buckingham, and bid him arme himselfe\nYorke. Call Buckingham, and all the friends thou hast,\nI am resolu'd for death and dignitie\nOld Clif. The first I warrant thee, if dreames proue true\nWar. You were best to go to bed, and dreame againe,\nTo keepe thee from the Tempest of the field\nOld Clif. I am resolu'd to beare a greater storme,\nThen any thou canst coniure vp to day:\nAnd that Ile write vpon thy Burgonet,\nMight I but know thee by thy housed Badge\nWar. Now by my Fathers badge, old Neuils Crest,\nThe rampant Beare chain'd to the ragged staffe,\nThis day Ile weare aloft my Burgonet,\nAs on a Mountaine top, the Cedar shewes,\nThat keepes his leaues inspight of any storme,\nEuen to affright thee with the view thereof\nOld Clif. And from thy Burgonet Ile rend thy Beare,\nAnd tread it vnder foot with all contempt,\nDespight the Bearard, that protects the Beare\nYo.Clif. And so to Armes victorious Father,\nTo quell the Rebels, and their Complices\nRich. Fie, Charitie for shame, speake not in spight,\nFor you shall sup with Iesu Christ to night\nYo.Clif. Foule stygmaticke that's more then thou\ncanst tell\nRic. If not in heauen, you'l surely sup in hell.\nExeunt.\nEnter Warwicke.\nWar. Clifford of Cumberland, 'tis Warwicke calles:\nAnd if thou dost not hide thee from the Beare,\nNow when the angrie Trumpet sounds alarum,\nAnd dead mens cries do fill the emptie ayre,\nClifford I say, come forth and fight with me,\nProud Northerne Lord, Clifford of Cumberland,\nWarwicke is hoarse with calling thee to armes.\nEnter Yorke.\nWar. How now my Noble Lord? What all a-foot\nYor. The deadly handed Clifford slew my Steed:\nBut match to match I haue encountred him,\nAnd made a prey for Carrion Kytes and Crowes\nEuen of the bonnie beast he loued so well.\nEnter Clifford.\nWar. Of one or both of vs the time is come\nYor. Hold Warwick: seek thee out some other chace\nFor I my selfe must hunt this Deere to death\nWar. Then nobly Yorke, 'tis for a Crown thou fightst:\nAs I intend Clifford to thriue to day,\nIt greeues my soule to leaue thee vnassail'd.\nExit War.\nClif. What seest thou in me Yorke?\nWhy dost thou pause?\nYorke. With thy braue bearing should I be in loue,\nBut that thou art so fast mine enemie\nClif. Nor should thy prowesse want praise & esteeme,\nBut that 'tis shewne ignobly, and in Treason\nYorke. So let it helpe me now against thy sword,\nAs I in iustice, and true right expresse it\nClif. My soule and bodie on the action both\nYor. A dreadfull lay, addresse thee instantly\nClif. La fin Corrone les eumenes\nYor. Thus Warre hath giuen thee peace, for y art still,\nPeace with his soule, heauen if it be thy will.\nEnter yong Clifford.\nClif. Shame and Confusion all is on the rout,\nFeare frames disorder, and disorder wounds\nWhere it should guard. O Warre, thou sonne of hell,\nWhom angry heauens do make their minister,\nThrow in the frozen bosomes of our part,\nHot Coales of Vengeance. Let no Souldier flye.\nHe that is truly dedicate to Warre,\nHath no selfe-loue: nor he that loues himselfe,\nHath not essentially, but by circumstance\nThe name of Valour. O let the vile world end,\nAnd the premised Flames of the Last day,\nKnit earth and heauen together.\nNow let the generall Trumpet blow his blast,\nParticularities, and pettie sounds\nTo cease. Was't thou ordain'd (deere Father)\nTo loose thy youth in peace, and to atcheeue\nThe Siluer Liuery of aduised Age,\nAnd in thy Reuerence, and thy Chaire-dayes, thus\nTo die in Ruffian battell? Euen at this sight,\nMy heart is turn'd to stone: and while 'tis mine,\nIt shall be stony. Yorke, not our old men spares:\nNo more will I their Babes, Teares Virginall,\nShall be to me, euen as the Dew to Fire,\nAnd Beautie, that the Tyrant oft reclaimes,\nShall to my flaming wrath, be Oyle and Flax:\nHenceforth, I will not haue to do with pitty.\nMeet I an infant of the house of Yorke,\nInto as many gobbits will I cut it\nAs wilde Medea yong Absirtis did.\nIn cruelty, will I seeke out my Fame.\nCome thou new ruine of olde Cliffords house:\nAs did Aeneas old Anchyses beare,\nSo beare I thee vpon my manly shoulders:\nBut then, Aeneas bare a liuing loade;\nNothing so heauy as these woes of mine.\nEnter Richard, and Somerset to fight.\nRich. So lye thou there:\nFor vnderneath an Ale-house paltry signe,\nThe Castle in S[aint]. Albons, Somerset\nHath made the Wizard famous in his death:\nSword, hold thy temper; Heart, be wrathfull still:\nPriests pray for enemies, but Princes kill.\nFight. Excursions.\nEnter King, Queene, and others.\nQu. Away my Lord, you are slow, for shame away\nKing. Can we outrun the Heauens? Good Margaret\nstay\nQu. What are you made of? You'l nor fight nor fly:\nNow is it manhood, wisedome, and defence,\nTo giue the enemy way, and to secure vs\nBy what we can, which can no more but flye.\nAlarum a farre off.\nIf you be tane, we then should see the bottome\nOf all our Fortunes: but if we haply scape,\n(As well we may, if not through your neglect)\nWe shall to London get, where you are lou'd,\nAnd where this breach now in our Fortunes made\nMay readily be stopt.\nEnter Clifford.\nClif. But that my hearts on future mischeefe set,\nI would speake blasphemy ere bid you flye:\nBut flye you must: Vncureable discomfite\nReignes in the hearts of all our present parts.\nAway for your releefe, and we will liue\nTo see their day, and them our Fortune giue.\nAway my Lord, away.\nExeunt.\nAlarum. Retreat. Enter Yorke, Richard, Warwicke, and Soldiers,\nwith Drum &\nColours.\nYorke. Of Salsbury, who can report of him,\nThat Winter Lyon, who in rage forgets\nAged contusions, and all brush of Time:\nAnd like a Gallant, in the brow of youth,\nRepaires him with Occasion. This happy day\nIs not it selfe, nor haue we wonne one foot,\nIf Salsbury be lost\nRich. My Noble Father:\nThree times to day I holpe him to his horse,\nThree times bestrid him: Thrice I led him off,\nPerswaded him from any further act:\nBut still where danger was, still there I met him,\nAnd like rich hangings in a homely house,\nSo was his Will, in his old feeble body,\nBut Noble as he is, looke where he comes.\nEnter Salisbury.\nSal. Now by my Sword, well hast thou fought to day:\nBy'th' Masse so did we all. I thanke you Richard.\nGod knowes how long it is I haue to liue:\nAnd it hath pleas'd him that three times to day\nYou haue defended me from imminent death.\nWell Lords, we haue not got that which we haue,\n'Tis not enough our foes are this time fled,\nBeing opposites of such repayring Nature\nYorke. I know our safety is to follow them,\nFor (as I heare) the King is fled to London,\nTo call a present Court of Parliament:\nLet vs pursue him ere the Writs go forth.\nWhat sayes Lord Warwicke, shall we after them?\nWar. After them: nay before them if we can:\nNow by my hand (Lords) 'twas a glorious day.\nSaint Albons battell wonne by famous Yorke,\nShall be eterniz'd in all Age to come.\nSound Drumme and Trumpets, and to London all,\nAnd more such dayes as these, to vs befall.\nExeunt.\nFINIS. The second Part of Henry the Sixt, with the death of the\nGood Duke\nHVMFREY.","title":"The second Part of Henry the Sixt","type":"page"}