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I must not yield to any rites of love,\nFor my profession's sacred from above:\nWhen I have chased all thy foes from hence,\nThen will I think upon a recompense.


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Assign'd am I to be the English scourge.\nThis night the siege assuredly I'll raise:\nExpect Saint Martin's summer, halcyon days,\nSince I have entered into these wars.\nGlory is like a circle in the water,\nWhich never ceaseth to enlarge itself\nTill by broad spreading it disperse to nought.\nWith Henry's death the English circle ends;\nDispersed are the glories it included.\nNow am I like that proud insulting ship\nWhich Caesar and his fortune bare at once.


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Was Mahomet inspired with a dove?\nThou with an eagle art inspired then.\nHelen, the mother of great Constantine,\nNor yet Saint Philip's daughters, were like thee.\nBright star of Venus, fall'n down on the earth,\nHow may I reverently worship thee enough?


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I am come to survey the Tower this day:\nSince Henry's death, I fear, there is conveyance.\nWhere be these warders, that they wait not here?\nOpen the gates; 'tis Gloucester that calls.


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Who willed you? or whose will stands but mine?\nThere's none protector of the realm but I.\nBreak up the gates, I'll be your warrantize.\nShall I be flouted thus by dunghill grooms?\n[Gloucester's men rush at the Tower Gates, and]\nWOODVILE the Lieutenant speaks within]


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Have patience, noble duke; I may not open;\nThe Cardinal of Winchester forbids:\nFrom him I have express commandment\nThat thou nor none of thine shall be let in.


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Faint-hearted Woodvile, prizest him 'fore me?\nArrogant Winchester, that haughty prelate,\nWhom Henry, our late sovereign, ne'er could brook?\nThou art no friend to God or to the king:\nOpen the gates, or I'll shut thee out shortly.


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Open the gates unto the lord protector,\nOr we'll burst them open, if that you come not quickly.\n[Enter to the Protector at the Tower Gates BISHOP]\nOF WINCHESTER and his men in tawny coats]


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Stand back, thou manifest conspirator,\nThou that contrivedst to murder our dead lord;\nThou that givest whores indulgences to sin:\nI'll canvass thee in thy broad cardinal's hat,\nIf thou proceed in this thy insolence.


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Nay, stand thou back, I will not budge a foot:\nThis be Damascus, be thou cursed Cain,\nTo slay thy brother Abel, if thou wilt.


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I will not slay thee, but I'll drive thee back:\nThy scarlet robes as a child's bearing-cloth\nI'll use to carry thee out of this place.


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What! am I dared and bearded to my face?\nDraw, men, for all this privileged place;\nBlue coats to tawny coats. Priest, beware your beard,\nI mean to tug it and to cuff you soundly:\nUnder my feet I stamp thy cardinal's hat:\nIn spite of pope or dignities of church,\nHere by the cheeks I'll drag thee up and down.


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Winchester goose, I cry, a rope! a rope!\nNow beat them hence; why do you let them stay?\nThee I'll chase hence, thou wolf in sheep's array.\nOut, tawny coats! out, scarlet hypocrite!\n[Here GLOUCESTER's men beat out BISHOP OF]\nWINCHESTER's men, and enter in the hurly-\nburly the Mayor of London and his Officers]


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Peace, mayor! thou know'st little of my wrongs:\nHere's Beaufort, that regards nor God nor king,\nHath here distrain'd the Tower to his use.


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Here's Gloucester, a foe to citizens,\nOne that still motions war and never peace,\nO'ercharging your free purses with large fines,\nThat seeks to overthrow religion,\nBecause he is protector of the realm,\nAnd would have armour here out of the Tower,\nTo crown himself king and suppress the prince.


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Naught rests for me in this tumultuous strife\nBut to make open proclamation:\nCome, officer; as loud as e'er thou canst,\nCry.


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All manner of men assembled here in arms this day\nagainst God's peace and the king's, we charge and\ncommand you, in his highness' name, to repair to\nyour several dwelling-places; and not to wear,\nhandle, or use any sword, weapon, or dagger,\nhenceforward, upon pain of death.


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Abominable Gloucester, guard thy head;\nFor I intend to have it ere long.\n[Exeunt, severally, GLOUCESTER and BISHOP OF]\nWINCHESTER with their Serving-men]


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See the coast clear'd, and then we will depart.\nGood God, these nobles should such stomachs bear!\nI myself fight not once in forty year.


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But now thou shalt not. Be thou ruled by me:\nChief master-gunner am I of this town;\nSomething I must do to procure me grace.\nThe prince's espials have informed me\nHow the English, in the suburbs close intrench'd,\nWont, through a secret grate of iron bars\nIn yonder tower, to overpeer the city,\nAnd thence discover how with most advantage\nThey may vex us with shot, or with assault.\nTo intercept this inconvenience,\nA piece of ordnance 'gainst it I have placed;\nAnd even these three days have I watch'd,\nIf I could see them.\nNow do thou watch, for I can stay no longer.\nIf thou spy'st any, run and bring me word;\nAnd thou shalt find me at the governor's.


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Father, I warrant you; take you no care;\nI'll never trouble you, if I may spy them.\n[Exit]\n[Enter, on the turrets, SALISBURY and TALBOT,]\nGLANSDALE, GARGRAVE, and others]


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Talbot, my life, my joy, again return'd!\nHow wert thou handled being prisoner?\nOr by what means got'st thou to be released?\nDiscourse, I prithee, on this turret's top.


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The Duke of Bedford had a prisoner\nCall'd the brave Lord Ponton de Santrailles;\nFor him was I exchanged and ransomed.\nBut with a baser man of arms by far\nOnce in contempt they would have barter'd me:\nWhich I, disdaining, scorn'd; and craved death,\nRather than I would be so vile esteem'd.\nIn fine, redeem'd I was as I desired.\nBut, O! the treacherous Fastolfe wounds my heart,\nWhom with my bare fists I would execute,\nIf I now had him brought into my power.


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With scoffs and scorns and contumelious taunts.\nIn open market-place produced they me,\nTo be a public spectacle to all:\nHere, said they, is the terror of the French,\nThe scarecrow that affrights our children so.\nThen broke I from the officers that led me,\nAnd with my nails digg'd stones out of the ground,\nTo hurl at the beholders of my shame:\nMy grisly countenance made others fly;\nNone durst come near for fear of sudden death.\nIn iron walls they deem'd me not secure;\nSo great fear of my name 'mongst them was spread,\nThat they supposed I could rend bars of steel,\nAnd spurn in pieces posts of adamant:\nWherefore a guard of chosen shot I had,\nThat walked about me every minute-while;\nAnd if I did but stir out of my bed,\nReady they were to shoot me to the heart.


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I grieve to hear what torments you endured,\nBut we will be revenged sufficiently\nNow it is supper-time in Orleans:\nHere, through this grate, I count each one\nand view the Frenchmen how they fortify:\nLet us look in; the sight will much delight thee.\nSir Thomas Gargrave, and Sir William Glansdale,\nLet me have your express opinions\nWhere is best place to make our battery next.


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What chance is this that suddenly hath cross'd us?\nSpeak, Salisbury; at least, if thou canst speak:\nHow farest thou, mirror of all martial men?\nOne of thy eyes and thy cheek's side struck off!\nAccursed tower! accursed fatal hand\nThat hath contrived this woful tragedy!\nIn thirteen battles Salisbury o'ercame;\nHenry the Fifth he first train'd to the wars;\nWhilst any trump did sound, or drum struck up,\nHis sword did ne'er leave striking in the field.\nYet livest thou, Salisbury? though thy speech doth fail,\nOne eye thou hast, to look to heaven for grace:\nThe sun with one eye vieweth all the world.\nHeaven, be thou gracious to none alive,\nIf Salisbury wants mercy at thy hands!\nBear hence his body; I will help to bury it.\nSir Thomas Gargrave, hast thou any life?\nSpeak unto Talbot; nay, look up to him.\nSalisbury, cheer thy spirit with this comfort;\nThou shalt not die whiles--\nHe beckons with his hand and smiles on me.\nAs who should say 'When I am dead and gone,\nRemember to avenge me on the French.'\nPlantagenet, I will; and like thee, Nero,\nPlay on the lute, beholding the towns burn:\nWretched shall France be only in my name.\n[Here an alarum, and it thunders and lightens]\nWhat stir is this? what tumult's in the heavens?\nWhence cometh this alarum and the noise?


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My lord, my lord, the French have gathered head:\nThe Dauphin, with one Joan la Pucelle join'd,\nA holy prophetess new risen up,\nIs come with a great power to raise the siege.


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Hear, hear how dying Salisbury doth groan!\nIt irks his heart he cannot be revenged.\nFrenchmen, I'll be a Salisbury to you:\nPucelle or puzzel, dolphin or dogfish,\nYour hearts I'll stamp out with my horse's heels,\nAnd make a quagmire of your mingled brains.\nConvey me Salisbury into his tent,\nAnd then we'll try what these dastard Frenchmen dare.


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[Alarum. Exeunt]\n[Here an alarum again: and TALBOT pursueth the]\nDAUPHIN, and driveth him: then enter JOAN LA\nPUCELLE, driving Englishmen before her, and exit\nafter them then re-enter TALBOT]


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Where is my strength, my valour, and my force?\nOur English troops retire, I cannot stay them:\nA woman clad in armour chaseth them.\n[Re-enter JOAN LA PUCELLE]\nHere, here she comes. I'll have a bout with thee;\nDevil or devil's dam, I'll conjure thee:\nBlood will I draw on thee, thou art a witch,\nAnd straightway give thy soul to him thou servest.


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Heavens, can you suffer hell so to prevail?\nMy breast I'll burst with straining of my courage\nAnd from my shoulders crack my arms asunder.\nBut I will chastise this high-minded strumpet.


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Talbot, farewell; thy hour is not yet come:\nI must go victual Orleans forthwith.\n[A short alarum; then enter the town with soldiers]\nO'ertake me, if thou canst; I scorn thy strength.\nGo, go, cheer up thy hungry-starved men;\nHelp Salisbury to make his testament:\nThis day is ours, as many more shall be.


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My thoughts are whirled like a potter's wheel;\nI know not where I am, nor what I do;\nA witch, by fear, not force, like Hannibal,\nDrives back our troops and conquers as she lists:\nSo bees with smoke and doves with noisome stench\nAre from their hives and houses driven away.\nThey call'd us for our fierceness English dogs;\nNow, like to whelps, we crying run away.\n[A short alarum]\nHark, countrymen! either renew the fight,\nOr tear the lions out of England's coat;\nRenounce your soil, give sheep in lions' stead:\nSheep run not half so treacherous from the wolf,\nOr horse or oxen from the leopard,\nAs you fly from your oft-subdued slaves.\n[Alarum. Here another skirmish]\nIt will not be: retire into your trenches:\nYou all consented unto Salisbury's death,\nFor none would strike a stroke in his revenge.\nPucelle is enter'd into Orleans,\nIn spite of us or aught that we could do.\nO, would I were to die with Salisbury!\nThe shame hereof will make me hide my head.


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[Exit TALBOT. Alarum; retreat; flourish]\n[Enter, on the walls, JOAN LA PUCELLE, CHARLES,]\nREIGNIER, ALENCON, and Soldiers]


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Advance our waving colours on the walls;\nRescued is Orleans from the English\nThus Joan la Pucelle hath perform'd her word.


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Divinest creature, Astraea's daughter,\nHow shall I honour thee for this success?\nThy promises are like Adonis' gardens\nThat one day bloom'd and fruitful were the next.\nFrance, triumph in thy glorious prophetess!\nRecover'd is the town of Orleans:\nMore blessed hap did ne'er befall our state.


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Why ring not out the bells aloud throughout the town?\nDauphin, command the citizens make bonfires\nAnd feast and banquet in the open streets,\nTo celebrate the joy that God hath given us.


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'Tis Joan, not we, by whom the day is won;\nFor which I will divide my crown with her,\nAnd all the priests and friars in my realm\nShall in procession sing her endless praise.\nA statelier pyramis to her I'll rear\nThan Rhodope's or Memphis' ever was:\nIn memory of her when she is dead,\nHer ashes, in an urn more precious\nThan the rich-jewel'd of Darius,\nTransported shall be at high festivals\nBefore the kings and queens of France.\nNo longer on Saint Denis will we cry,\nBut Joan la Pucelle shall be France's saint.\nCome in, and let us banquet royally,\nAfter this golden day of victory.


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Sirs, take your places and be vigilant:\nIf any noise or soldier you perceive\nNear to the walls, by some apparent sign\nLet us have knowledge at the court of guard.


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Sergeant, you shall.\n[Exit Sergeant]\nThus are poor servitors,\nWhen others sleep upon their quiet beds,\nConstrain'd to watch in darkness, rain and cold.\n[Enter TALBOT, BEDFORD, BURGUNDY, and Forces, with]\nscaling-ladders, their drums beating a dead march]


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Lord Regent, and redoubted Burgundy,\nBy whose approach the regions of Artois,\nWallon and Picardy are friends to us,\nThis happy night the Frenchmen are secure,\nHaving all day caroused and banqueted:\nEmbrace we then this opportunity\nAs fitting best to quittance their deceit\nContrived by art and baleful sorcery.


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Coward of France! how much he wrongs his fame,\nDespairing of his own arm's fortitude,\nTo join with witches and the help of hell!


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Pray God she prove not masculine ere long,\nIf underneath the standard of the French\nShe carry armour as she hath begun.


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Well, let them practise and converse with spirits:\nGod is our fortress, in whose conquering name\nLet us resolve to scale their flinty bulwarks.


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Not all together: better far, I guess,\nThat we do make our entrance several ways;\nThat, if it chance the one of us do fail,\nThe other yet may rise against their force.


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And here will Talbot mount, or make his grave.\nNow, Salisbury, for thee, and for the right\nOf English Henry, shall this night appear\nHow much in duty I am bound to both.


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Arm! arm! the enemy doth make assault!\n[Cry: 'St. George,' 'A Talbot.']\n[The French leap over the walls in their shirts.]\nEnter, several ways, the BASTARD OF ORLEANS,\nALENCON, and REIGNIER, half ready, and half unready]


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Of all exploits since first I follow'd arms,\nNe'er heard I of a warlike enterprise\nMore venturous or desperate than this.


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Is this thy cunning, thou deceitful dame?\nDidst thou at first, to flatter us withal,\nMake us partakers of a little gain,\nThat now our loss might be ten times so much?


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Wherefore is Charles impatient with his friend!\nAt all times will you have my power alike?\nSleeping or waking must I still prevail,\nOr will you blame and lay the fault on me?\nImprovident soldiers! had your watch been good,\nThis sudden mischief never could have fall'n.


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Duke of Alencon, this was your default,\nThat, being captain of the watch to-night,\nDid look no better to that weighty charge.


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Had all your quarters been as safely kept\nAs that whereof I had the government,\nWe had not been thus shamefully surprised.


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And, for myself, most part of all this night,\nWithin her quarter and mine own precinct\nI was employ'd in passing to and fro,\nAbout relieving of the sentinels:\nThen how or which way should they first break in?


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Question, my lords, no further of the case,\nHow or which way: 'tis sure they found some place\nBut weakly guarded, where the breach was made.\nAnd now there rests no other shift but this;\nTo gather our soldiers, scatter'd and dispersed,\nAnd lay new platforms to endamage them.\n[Alarum. Enter an English Soldier, crying 'A]\nTalbot! a Talbot!' They fly, leaving their\nclothes behind]


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I'll be so bold to take what they have left.\nThe cry of Talbot serves me for a sword;\nFor I have loaden me with many spoils,\nUsing no other weapon but his name.


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The day begins to break, and night is fled,\nWhose pitchy mantle over-veil'd the earth.\nHere sound retreat, and cease our hot pursuit.


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Bring forth the body of old Salisbury,\nAnd here advance it in the market-place,\nThe middle centre of this cursed town.\nNow have I paid my vow unto his soul;\nFor every drop of blood was drawn from him,\nThere hath at least five Frenchmen died tonight.\nAnd that hereafter ages may behold\nWhat ruin happen'd in revenge of him,\nWithin their chiefest temple I'll erect\nA tomb, wherein his corpse shall be interr'd:\nUpon the which, that every one may read,\nShall be engraved the sack of Orleans,\nThe treacherous manner of his mournful death\nAnd what a terror he had been to France.\nBut, lords, in all our bloody massacre,\nI muse we met not with the Dauphin's grace,\nHis new-come champion, virtuous Joan of Arc,\nNor any of his false confederates.


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'Tis thought, Lord Talbot, when the fight began,\nRoused on the sudden from their drowsy beds,\nThey did amongst the troops of armed men\nLeap o'er the walls for refuge in the field.


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Myself, as far as I could well discern\nFor smoke and dusky vapours of the night,\nAm sure I scared the Dauphin and his trull,\nWhen arm in arm they both came swiftly running,\nLike to a pair of loving turtle-doves\nThat could not live asunder day or night.\nAfter that things are set in order here,\nWe'll follow them with all the power we have.


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All hail, my lords! which of this princely train\nCall ye the warlike Talbot, for his acts\nSo much applauded through the realm of France?


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The virtuous lady, Countess of Auvergne,\nWith modesty admiring thy renown,\nBy me entreats, great lord, thou wouldst vouchsafe\nTo visit her poor castle where she lies,\nThat she may boast she hath beheld the man\nWhose glory fills the world with loud report.


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Is it even so? Nay, then, I see our wars\nWill turn unto a peaceful comic sport,\nWhen ladies crave to be encounter'd with.\nYou may not, my lord, despise her gentle suit.


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Ne'er trust me then; for when a world of men\nCould not prevail with all their oratory,\nYet hath a woman's kindness over-ruled:\nAnd therefore tell her I return great thanks,\nAnd in submission will attend on her.\nWill not your honours bear me company?


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No, truly; it is more than manners will:\nAnd I have heard it said, unbidden guests\nAre often welcomest when they are gone.


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Well then, alone, since there's no remedy,\nI mean to prove this lady's courtesy.\nCome hither, captain.\n[Whispers]\nYou perceive my mind?


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The plot is laid: if all things fall out right,\nI shall as famous be by this exploit\nAs Scythian Tomyris by Cyrus' death.\nGreat is the rumor of this dreadful knight,\nAnd his achievements of no less account:\nFain would mine eyes be witness with mine ears,\nTo give their censure of these rare reports.


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Is this the scourge of France?\nIs this the Talbot, so much fear'd abroad\nThat with his name the mothers still their babes?\nI see report is fabulous and false:\nI thought I should have seen some Hercules,\nA second Hector, for his grim aspect,\nAnd large proportion of his strong-knit limbs.\nAlas, this is a child, a silly dwarf!\nIt cannot be this weak and writhled shrimp\nShould strike such terror to his enemies.


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Madam, I have been bold to trouble you;\nBut since your ladyship is not at leisure,\nI'll sort some other time to visit you.


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To me, blood-thirsty lord;\nAnd for that cause I trained thee to my house.\nLong time thy shadow hath been thrall to me,\nFor in my gallery thy picture hangs:\nBut now the substance shall endure the like,\nAnd I will chain these legs and arms of thine,\nThat hast by tyranny these many years\nWasted our country, slain our citizens\nAnd sent our sons and husbands captivate.


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I laugh to see your ladyship so fond\nTo think that you have aught but Talbot's shadow\nWhereon to practise your severity.


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No, no, I am but shadow of myself:\nYou are deceived, my substance is not here;\nFor what you see is but the smallest part\nAnd least proportion of humanity:\nI tell you, madam, were the whole frame here,\nIt is of such a spacious lofty pitch,\nYour roof were not sufficient to contain't.


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This is a riddling merchant for the nonce;\nHe will be here, and yet he is not here:\nHow can these contrarieties agree?


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That will I show you presently.\n[Winds his horn. Drums strike up: a peal of]\nordnance. Enter soldiers]\nHow say you, madam? are you now persuaded\nThat Talbot is but shadow of himself?\nThese are his substance, sinews, arms and strength,\nWith which he yoketh your rebellious necks,\nRazeth your cities and subverts your towns\nAnd in a moment makes them desolate.


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Victorious Talbot! pardon my abuse:\nI find thou art no less than fame hath bruited\nAnd more than may be gather'd by thy shape.\nLet my presumption not provoke thy wrath;\nFor I am sorry that with reverence\nI did not entertain thee as thou art.


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Be not dismay'd, fair lady; nor misconstrue\nThe mind of Talbot, as you did mistake\nThe outward composition of his body.\nWhat you have done hath not offended me;\nNor other satisfaction do I crave,\nBut only, with your patience, that we may\nTaste of your wine and see what cates you have;\nFor soldiers' stomachs always serve them well.


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[Exeunt]\n[Enter the Earls of SOMERSET, SUFFOLK, and WARWICK;]\nRICHARD PLANTAGENET, VERNON, and another Lawyer]


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Faith, I have been a truant in the law,\nAnd never yet could frame my will to it;\nAnd therefore frame the law unto my will.


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Between two hawks, which flies the higher pitch;\nBetween two dogs, which hath the deeper mouth;\nBetween two blades, which bears the better temper:\nBetween two horses, which doth bear him best;\nBetween two girls, which hath the merriest eye;\nI have perhaps some shallow spirit of judgement;\nBut in these nice sharp quillets of the law,\nGood faith, I am no wiser than a daw.


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Tut, tut, here is a mannerly forbearance:\nThe truth appears so naked on my side\nThat any purblind eye may find it out.


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And on my side it is so well apparell'd,\nSo clear, so shining and so evident\nThat it will glimmer through a blind man's eye.


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Since you are tongue-tied and so loath to speak,\nIn dumb significants proclaim your thoughts:\nLet him that is a true-born gentleman\nAnd stands upon the honour of his birth,\nIf he suppose that I have pleaded truth,\nFrom off this brier pluck a white rose with me.


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Let him that is no coward nor no flatterer,\nBut dare maintain the party of the truth,\nPluck a red rose from off this thorn with me.


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I love no colours, and without all colour\nOf base insinuating flattery\nI pluck this white rose with Plantagenet.


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Stay, lords and gentlemen, and pluck no more,\nTill you conclude that he upon whose side\nThe fewest roses are cropp'd from the tree\nShall yield the other in the right opinion.


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Then for the truth and plainness of the case.\nI pluck this pale and maiden blossom here,\nGiving my verdict on the white rose side.


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Prick not your finger as you pluck it off,\nLest bleeding you do paint the white rose red\nAnd fall on my side so, against your will.


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If I my lord, for my opinion bleed,\nOpinion shall be surgeon to my hurt\nAnd keep me on the side where still I am.


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Unless my study and my books be false,\nThe argument you held was wrong in you:\n[To SOMERSET]\nIn sign whereof I pluck a white rose too.


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Meantime your cheeks do counterfeit our roses;\nFor pale they look with fear, as witnessing\nThe truth on our side.


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No, Plantagenet,\n'Tis not for fear but anger that thy cheeks\nBlush for pure shame to counterfeit our roses,\nAnd yet thy tongue will not confess thy error.


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Well, I'll find friends to wear my bleeding roses,\nThat shall maintain what I have said is true,\nWhere false Plantagenet dare not be seen.


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Now, by God's will, thou wrong'st him, Somerset;\nHis grandfather was Lionel Duke of Clarence,\nThird son to the third Edward King of England:\nSpring crestless yeomen from so deep a root?


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By him that made me, I'll maintain my words\nOn any plot of ground in Christendom.\nWas not thy father, Richard Earl of Cambridge,\nFor treason executed in our late king's days?\nAnd, by his treason, stand'st not thou attainted,\nCorrupted, and exempt from ancient gentry?\nHis trespass yet lives guilty in thy blood;\nAnd, till thou be restored, thou art a yeoman.


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My father was attached, not attainted,\nCondemn'd to die for treason, but no traitor;\nAnd that I'll prove on better men than Somerset,\nWere growing time once ripen'd to my will.\nFor your partaker Pole and you yourself,\nI'll note you in my book of memory,\nTo scourge you for this apprehension:\nLook to it well and say you are well warn'd.


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Ah, thou shalt find us ready for thee still;\nAnd know us by these colours for thy foes,\nFor these my friends in spite of thee shall wear.


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And, by my soul, this pale and angry rose,\nAs cognizance of my blood-drinking hate,\nWill I for ever and my faction wear,\nUntil it wither with me to my grave\nOr flourish to the height of my degree.


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This blot that they object against your house\nShall be wiped out in the next parliament\nCall'd for the truce of Winchester and Gloucester;\nAnd if thou be not then created York,\nI will not live to be accounted Warwick.\nMeantime, in signal of my love to thee,\nAgainst proud Somerset and William Pole,\nWill I upon thy party wear this rose:\nAnd here I prophesy: this brawl to-day,\nGrown to this faction in the Temple-garden,\nShall send between the red rose and the white\nA thousand souls to death and deadly night.


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Thanks, gentle sir.\nCome, let us four to dinner: I dare say\nThis quarrel will drink blood another day.


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Kind keepers of my weak decaying age,\nLet dying Mortimer here rest himself.\nEven like a man new haled from the rack,\nSo fare my limbs with long imprisonment.\nAnd these grey locks, the pursuivants of death,\nNestor-like aged in an age of care,\nArgue the end of Edmund Mortimer.\nThese eyes, like lamps whose wasting oil is spent,\nWax dim, as drawing to their exigent;\nWeak shoulders, overborne with burthening grief,\nAnd pithless arms, like to a wither'd vine\nThat droops his sapless branches to the ground;\nYet are these feet, whose strengthless stay is numb,\nUnable to support this lump of clay,\nSwift-winged with desire to get a grave,\nAs witting I no other comfort have.\nBut tell me, keeper, will my nephew come?


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Richard Plantagenet, my lord, will come:\nWe sent unto the Temple, unto his chamber;\nAnd answer was return'd that he will come.


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Enough: my soul shall then be satisfied.\nPoor gentleman! his wrong doth equal mine.\nSince Henry Monmouth first began to reign,\nBefore whose glory I was great in arms,\nThis loathsome sequestration have I had:\nAnd even since then hath Richard been obscured,\nDeprived of honour and inheritance.\nBut now the arbitrator of despairs,\nJust death, kind umpire of men's miseries,\nWith sweet enlargement doth dismiss me hence:\nI would his troubles likewise were expired,\nThat so he might recover what was lost.


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Direct mine arms I may embrace his neck,\nAnd in his bosom spend my latter gasp:\nO, tell me when my lips do touch his cheeks,\nThat I may kindly give one fainting kiss.\nAnd now declare, sweet stem from York's great stock,\nWhy didst thou say, of late thou wert despised?


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First, lean thine aged back against mine arm;\nAnd, in that ease, I'll tell thee my disease.\nThis day, in argument upon a case,\nSome words there grew 'twixt Somerset and me;\nAmong which terms he used his lavish tongue\nAnd did upbraid me with my father's death:\nWhich obloquy set bars before my tongue,\nElse with the like I had requited him.\nTherefore, good uncle, for my father's sake,\nIn honour of a true Plantagenet\nAnd for alliance sake, declare the cause\nMy father, Earl of Cambridge, lost his head.


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That cause, fair nephew, that imprison'd me\nAnd hath detain'd me all my flowering youth\nWithin a loathsome dungeon, there to pine,\nWas cursed instrument of his decease.


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I will, if that my fading breath permit\nAnd death approach not ere my tale be done.\nHenry the Fourth, grandfather to this king,\nDeposed his nephew Richard, Edward's son,\nThe first-begotten and the lawful heir,\nOf Edward king, the third of that descent:\nDuring whose reign the Percies of the north,\nFinding his usurpation most unjust,\nEndeavor'd my advancement to the throne:\nThe reason moved these warlike lords to this\nWas, for that--young King Richard thus removed,\nLeaving no heir begotten of his body--\nI was the next by birth and parentage;\nFor by my mother I derived am\nFrom Lionel Duke of Clarence, the third son\nTo King Edward the Third; whereas he\nFrom John of Gaunt doth bring his pedigree,\nBeing but fourth of that heroic line.\nBut mark: as in this haughty attempt\nThey laboured to plant the rightful heir,\nI lost my liberty and they their lives.\nLong after this, when Henry the Fifth,\nSucceeding his father Bolingbroke, did reign,\nThy father, Earl of Cambridge, then derived\nFrom famous Edmund Langley, Duke of York,\nMarrying my sister that thy mother was,\nAgain in pity of my hard distress\nLevied an army, weening to redeem\nAnd have install'd me in the diadem:\nBut, as the rest, so fell that noble earl\nAnd was beheaded. Thus the Mortimers,\nIn whom the tide rested, were suppress'd.


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True; and thou seest that I no issue have\nAnd that my fainting words do warrant death;\nThou art my heir; the rest I wish thee gather:\nBut yet be wary in thy studious care.


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Thy grave admonishments prevail with me:\nBut yet, methinks, my father's execution\nWas nothing less than bloody tyranny.


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With silence, nephew, be thou politic:\nStrong-fixed is the house of Lancaster,\nAnd like a mountain, not to be removed.\nBut now thy uncle is removing hence:\nAs princes do their courts, when they are cloy'd\nWith long continuance in a settled place.


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Thou dost then wrong me, as that slaughterer doth\nWhich giveth many wounds when one will kill.\nMourn not, except thou sorrow for my good;\nOnly give order for my funeral:\nAnd so farewell, and fair be all thy hopes\nAnd prosperous be thy life in peace and war!


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And peace, no war, befall thy parting soul!\nIn prison hast thou spent a pilgrimage\nAnd like a hermit overpass'd thy days.\nWell, I will lock his counsel in my breast;\nAnd what I do imagine let that rest.\nKeepers, convey him hence, and I myself\nWill see his burial better than his life.\n[Exeunt Gaolers, bearing out the body of MORTIMER]\nHere dies the dusky torch of Mortimer,\nChoked with ambition of the meaner sort:\nAnd for those wrongs, those bitter injuries,\nWhich Somerset hath offer'd to my house:\nI doubt not but with honour to redress;\nAnd therefore haste I to the parliament,\nEither to be restored to my blood,\nOr make my ill the advantage of my good.


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[Exit]\n[Flourish. Enter KING HENRY VI, EXETER, GLOUCESTER,]\nWARWICK, SOMERSET, and SUFFOLK; the BISHOP OF\nWINCHESTER, RICHARD PLANTAGENET, and others.\nGLOUCESTER offers to put up a bill; BISHOP OF\nWINCHESTER snatches it, and tears it]


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Comest thou with deep premeditated lines,\nWith written pamphlets studiously devised,\nHumphrey of Gloucester? If thou canst accuse,\nOr aught intend'st to lay unto my charge,\nDo it without invention, suddenly;\nAs I with sudden and extemporal speech\nPurpose to answer what thou canst object.


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Presumptuous priest! this place commands my patience,\nOr thou shouldst find thou hast dishonour'd me.\nThink not, although in writing I preferr'd\nThe manner of thy vile outrageous crimes,\nThat therefore I have forged, or am not able\nVerbatim to rehearse the method of my pen:\nNo, prelate; such is thy audacious wickedness,\nThy lewd, pestiferous and dissentious pranks,\nAs very infants prattle of thy pride.\nThou art a most pernicious usurer,\nForward by nature, enemy to peace;\nLascivious, wanton, more than well beseems\nA man of thy profession and degree;\nAnd for thy treachery, what's more manifest?\nIn that thou laid'st a trap to take my life,\nAs well at London bridge as at the Tower.\nBeside, I fear me, if thy thoughts were sifted,\nThe king, thy sovereign, is not quite exempt\nFrom envious malice of thy swelling heart.


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Gloucester, I do defy thee. Lords, vouchsafe\nTo give me hearing what I shall reply.\nIf I were covetous, ambitious or perverse,\nAs he will have me, how am I so poor?\nOr how haps it I seek not to advance\nOr raise myself, but keep my wonted calling?\nAnd for dissension, who preferreth peace\nMore than I do?--except I be provoked.\nNo, my good lords, it is not that offends;\nIt is not that that hath incensed the duke:\nIt is, because no one should sway but he;\nNo one but he should be about the king;\nAnd that engenders thunder in his breast\nAnd makes him roar these accusations forth.\nBut he shall know I am as good--


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[Aside] Plantagenet, I see, must hold his tongue,\nLest it be said 'Speak, sirrah, when you should;\nMust your bold verdict enter talk with lords?'\nElse would I have a fling at Winchester.


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Uncles of Gloucester and of Winchester,\nThe special watchmen of our English weal,\nI would prevail, if prayers might prevail,\nTo join your hearts in love and amity.\nO, what a scandal is it to our crown,\nThat two such noble peers as ye should jar!\nBelieve me, lords, my tender years can tell\nCivil dissension is a viperous worm\nThat gnaws the bowels of the commonwealth.\n[A noise within, 'Down with the tawny-coats!']\nWhat tumult's this?


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O, my good lords, and virtuous Henry,\nPity the city of London, pity us!\nThe bishop and the Duke of Gloucester's men,\nForbidden late to carry any weapon,\nHave fill'd their pockets full of pebble stones\nAnd banding themselves in contrary parts\nDo pelt so fast at one another's pate\nThat many have their giddy brains knock'd out:\nOur windows are broke down in every street\nAnd we for fear compell'd to shut our shops.


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We charge you, on allegiance to ourself,\nTo hold your slaughtering hands and keep the peace.\nPray, uncle Gloucester, mitigate this strife.


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My lord, we know your grace to be a man\nJust and upright; and, for your royal birth,\nInferior to none but to his majesty:\nAnd ere that we will suffer such a prince,\nSo kind a father of the commonweal,\nTo be disgraced by an inkhorn mate,\nWe and our wives and children all will fight\nAnd have our bodies slaughtered by thy foes.


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O, how this discord doth afflict my soul!\nCan you, my Lord of Winchester, behold\nMy sighs and tears and will not once relent?\nWho should be pitiful, if you be not?\nOr who should study to prefer a peace.\nIf holy churchmen take delight in broils?


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Yield, my lord protector; yield, Winchester;\nExcept you mean with obstinate repulse\nTo slay your sovereign and destroy the realm.\nYou see what mischief and what murder too\nHath been enacted through your enmity;\nThen be at peace except ye thirst for blood.


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Compassion on the king commands me stoop;\nOr I would see his heart out, ere the priest\nShould ever get that privilege of me.


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Behold, my Lord of Winchester, the duke\nHath banish'd moody discontented fury,\nAs by his smoothed brows it doth appear:\nWhy look you still so stern and tragical?


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Fie, uncle Beaufort! I have heard you preach\nThat malice was a great and grievous sin;\nAnd will not you maintain the thing you teach,\nBut prove a chief offender in the same?


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Sweet king! the bishop hath a kindly gird.\nFor shame, my lord of Winchester, relent!\nWhat, shall a child instruct you what to do?


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[Aside] Ay, but, I fear me, with a hollow heart.--\nSee here, my friends and loving countrymen,\nThis token serveth for a flag of truce\nBetwixt ourselves and all our followers:\nSo help me God, as I dissemble not!


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O, loving uncle, kind Duke of Gloucester,\nHow joyful am I made by this contract!\nAway, my masters! trouble us no more;\nBut join in friendship, as your lords have done.


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Accept this scroll, most gracious sovereign,\nWhich in the right of Richard Plantagenet\nWe do exhibit to your majesty.


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Well urged, my Lord of Warwick: or sweet prince,\nAnd if your grace mark every circumstance,\nYou have great reason to do Richard right;\nEspecially for those occasions\nAt Eltham Place I told your majesty.


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And those occasions, uncle, were of force:\nTherefore, my loving lords, our pleasure is\nThat Richard be restored to his blood.


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If Richard will be true, not that alone\nBut all the whole inheritance I give\nThat doth belong unto the house of York,\nFrom whence you spring by lineal descent.


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Stoop then and set your knee against my foot;\nAnd, in reguerdon of that duty done,\nI gird thee with the valiant sword of York:\nRise Richard, like a true Plantagenet,\nAnd rise created princely Duke of York.


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And so thrive Richard as thy foes may fall!\nAnd as my duty springs, so perish they\nThat grudge one thought against your majesty!


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Now will it best avail your majesty\nTo cross the seas and to be crown'd in France:\nThe presence of a king engenders love\nAmongst his subjects and his loyal friends,\nAs it disanimates his enemies.


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Ay, we may march in England or in France,\nNot seeing what is likely to ensue.\nThis late dissension grown betwixt the peers\nBurns under feigned ashes of forged love\nAnd will at last break out into a flame:\nAs fester'd members rot but by degree,\nTill bones and flesh and sinews fall away,\nSo will this base and envious discord breed.\nAnd now I fear that fatal prophecy\nWhich in the time of Henry named the Fifth\nWas in the mouth of every sucking babe;\nThat Henry born at Monmouth should win all\nAnd Henry born at Windsor lose all:\nWhich is so plain that Exeter doth wish\nHis days may finish ere that hapless time.


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These are the city gates, the gates of Rouen,\nThrough which our policy must make a breach:\nTake heed, be wary how you place your words;\nTalk like the vulgar sort of market men\nThat come to gather money for their corn.\nIf we have entrance, as I hope we shall,\nAnd that we find the slothful watch but weak,\nI'll by a sign give notice to our friends,\nThat Charles the Dauphin may encounter them.


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Our sacks shall be a mean to sack the city,\nAnd we be lords and rulers over Rouen;\nTherefore we'll knock.


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Now, Rouen, I'll shake thy bulwarks to the ground.\n[Exeunt]\n[Enter CHARLES, the BASTARD OF ORLEANS, ALENCON,]\nREIGNIER, and forces]


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Here enter'd Pucelle and her practisants;\nNow she is there, how will she specify\nWhere is the best and safest passage in?


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By thrusting out a torch from yonder tower;\nWhich, once discern'd, shows that her meaning is,\nNo way to that, for weakness, which she enter'd.\n[Enter JOAN LA PUCELLE on the top, thrusting out a]\ntorch burning]


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Behold, this is the happy wedding torch\nThat joineth Rouen unto her countrymen,\nBut burning fatal to the Talbotites!


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Defer no time, delays have dangerous ends;\nEnter, and cry 'The Dauphin!' presently,\nAnd then do execution on the watch.


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France, thou shalt rue this treason with thy tears,\nIf Talbot but survive thy treachery.\nPucelle, that witch, that damned sorceress,\nHath wrought this hellish mischief unawares,\nThat hardly we escaped the pride of France.\n[Exit]\n[An alarum: excursions. BEDFORD, brought in sick]\nin a chair. Enter TALBOT and BURGUNDY without:\nwithin JOAN LA PUCELLE, CHARLES, BASTARD OF ORLEANS,\nALENCON, and REIGNIER, on the walls]


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Good morrow, gallants! want ye corn for bread?\nI think the Duke of Burgundy will fast\nBefore he'll buy again at such a rate:\n'Twas full of darnel; do you like the taste?


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Scoff on, vile fiend and shameless courtezan!\nI trust ere long to choke thee with thine own\nAnd make thee curse the harvest of that corn.


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Foul fiend of France, and hag of all despite,\nEncompass'd with thy lustful paramours!\nBecomes it thee to taunt his valiant age\nAnd twit with cowardice a man half dead?\nDamsel, I'll have a bout with you again,\nOr else let Talbot perish with this shame.


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Are ye so hot, sir? yet, Pucelle, hold thy peace;\nIf Talbot do but thunder, rain will follow.\n[The English whisper together in council]\nGod speed the parliament! who shall be the speaker?


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I speak not to that railing Hecate,\nBut unto thee, Alencon, and the rest;\nWill ye, like soldiers, come and fight it out?


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Signior, hang! base muleters of France!\nLike peasant foot-boys do they keep the walls\nAnd dare not take up arms like gentlemen.


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Away, captains! let's get us from the walls;\nFor Talbot means no goodness by his looks.\nGod be wi' you, my lord! we came but to tell you\nThat we are here.


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And there will we be too, ere it be long,\nOr else reproach be Talbot's greatest fame!\nVow, Burgundy, by honour of thy house,\nPrick'd on by public wrongs sustain'd in France,\nEither to get the town again or die:\nAnd I, as sure as English Henry lives\nAnd as his father here was conqueror,\nAs sure as in this late-betrayed town\nGreat Coeur-de-lion's heart was buried,\nSo sure I swear to get the town or die.


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But, ere we go, regard this dying prince,\nThe valiant Duke of Bedford. Come, my lord,\nWe will bestow you in some better place,\nFitter for sickness and for crazy age.


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Lord Talbot, do not so dishonour me:\nHere will I sit before the walls of Rouen\nAnd will be partner of your weal or woe.


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Not to be gone from hence; for once I read\nThat stout Pendragon in his litter sick\nCame to the field and vanquished his foes:\nMethinks I should revive the soldiers' hearts,\nBecause I ever found them as myself.


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Undaunted spirit in a dying breast!\nThen be it so: heavens keep old Bedford safe!\nAnd now no more ado, brave Burgundy,\nBut gather we our forces out of hand\nAnd set upon our boasting enemy.\n[Exeunt all but BEDFORD and Attendants]\n[An alarum: excursions. Enter FASTOLFE and]\na Captain]


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Cowardly knight! ill fortune follow thee!\n[Exit]\n[Retreat: excursions. JOAN LA PUCELLE, ALENCON,]\nand CHARLES fly]


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Now, quiet soul, depart when heaven please,\nFor I have seen our enemies' overthrow.\nWhat is the trust or strength of foolish man?\nThey that of late were daring with their scoffs\nAre glad and fain by flight to save themselves.


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Lost, and recover'd in a day again!\nThis is a double honour, Burgundy:\nYet heavens have glory for this victory!


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Warlike and martial Talbot, Burgundy\nEnshrines thee in his heart and there erects\nThy noble deeds as valour's monuments.


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Thanks, gentle duke. But where is Pucelle now?\nI think her old familiar is asleep:\nNow where's the Bastard's braves, and Charles his gleeks?\nWhat, all amort? Rouen hangs her head for grief\nThat such a valiant company are fled.\nNow will we take some order in the town,\nPlacing therein some expert officers,\nAnd then depart to Paris to the king,\nFor there young Henry with his nobles lie.


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But yet, before we go, let's not forget\nThe noble Duke of Bedford late deceased,\nBut see his exequies fulfill'd in Rouen:\nA braver soldier never couched lance,\nA gentler heart did never sway in court;\nBut kings and mightiest potentates must die,\nFor that's the end of human misery.


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Dismay not, princes, at this accident,\nNor grieve that Rouen is so recovered:\nCare is no cure, but rather corrosive,\nFor things that are not to be remedied.\nLet frantic Talbot triumph for a while\nAnd like a peacock sweep along his tail;\nWe'll pull his plumes and take away his train,\nIf Dauphin and the rest will be but ruled.


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We have been guided by thee hitherto,\nAnd of thy cunning had no diffidence:\nOne sudden foil shall never breed distrust.


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We'll set thy statue in some holy place,\nAnd have thee reverenced like a blessed saint:\nEmploy thee then, sweet virgin, for our good.


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Then thus it must be; this doth Joan devise:\nBy fair persuasions mix'd with sugar'd words\nWe will entice the Duke of Burgundy\nTo leave the Talbot and to follow us.


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Ay, marry, sweeting, if we could do that,\nFrance were no place for Henry's warriors;\nNor should that nation boast it so with us,\nBut be extirped from our provinces.


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Your honours shall perceive how I will work\nTo bring this matter to the wished end.\n[Drum sounds afar off]\nHark! by the sound of drum you may perceive\nTheir powers are marching unto Paris-ward.\n[Here sound an English march. Enter, and pass over]\nat a distance, TALBOT and his forces]\nThere goes the Talbot, with his colours spread,\nAnd all the troops of English after him.\n[French march. Enter BURGUNDY and forces]\nNow in the rearward comes the duke and his:\nFortune in favour makes him lag behind.\nSummon a parley; we will talk with him.


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Look on thy country, look on fertile France,\nAnd see the cities and the towns defaced\nBy wasting ruin of the cruel foe.\nAs looks the mother on her lowly babe\nWhen death doth close his tender dying eyes,\nSee, see the pining malady of France;\nBehold the wounds, the most unnatural wounds,\nWhich thou thyself hast given her woful breast.\nO, turn thy edged sword another way;\nStrike those that hurt, and hurt not those that help.\nOne drop of blood drawn from thy country's bosom\nShould grieve thee more than streams of foreign gore:\nReturn thee therefore with a flood of tears,\nAnd wash away thy country's stained spots.


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Besides, all French and France exclaims on thee,\nDoubting thy birth and lawful progeny.\nWho joint'st thou with but with a lordly nation\nThat will not trust thee but for profit's sake?\nWhen Talbot hath set footing once in France\nAnd fashion'd thee that instrument of ill,\nWho then but English Henry will be lord\nAnd thou be thrust out like a fugitive?\nCall we to mind, and mark but this for proof,\nWas not the Duke of Orleans thy foe?\nAnd was he not in England prisoner?\nBut when they heard he was thine enemy,\nThey set him free without his ransom paid,\nIn spite of Burgundy and all his friends.\nSee, then, thou fight'st against thy countrymen\nAnd joint'st with them will be thy slaughtermen.\nCome, come, return; return, thou wandering lord:\nCharles and the rest will take thee in their arms.


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I am vanquished; these haughty words of hers\nHave batter'd me like roaring cannon-shot,\nAnd made me almost yield upon my knees.\nForgive me, country, and sweet countrymen,\nAnd, lords, accept this hearty kind embrace:\nMy forces and my power of men are yours:\nSo farewell, Talbot; I'll no longer trust thee.


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[Exeunt]\n[Enter KING HENRY VI, GLOUCESTER, BISHOP OF]\nWINCHESTER, YORK, SUFFOLK, SOMERSET, WARWICK,\nEXETER, VERNON. BASSET, and others. To them\nwith his Soldiers, TALBOT]


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My gracious prince, and honourable peers,\nHearing of your arrival in this realm,\nI have awhile given truce unto my wars,\nTo do my duty to my sovereign:\nIn sign, whereof, this arm, that hath reclaim'd\nTo your obedience fifty fortresses,\nTwelve cities and seven walled towns of strength,\nBeside five hundred prisoners of esteem,\nLets fall his sword before your highness' feet,\nAnd with submissive loyalty of heart\nAscribes the glory of his conquest got\nFirst to my God and next unto your grace.


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Welcome, brave captain and victorious lord!\nWhen I was young, as yet I am not old,\nI do remember how my father said\nA stouter champion never handled sword.\nLong since we were resolved of your truth,\nYour faithful service and your toil in war;\nYet never have you tasted our reward,\nOr been reguerdon'd with so much as thanks,\nBecause till now we never saw your face:\nTherefore, stand up; and, for these good deserts,\nWe here create you Earl of Shrewsbury;\nAnd in our coronation take your place.


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Now, sir, to you, that were so hot at sea,\nDisgracing of these colours that I wear\nIn honour of my noble Lord of York:\nDarest thou maintain the former words thou spakest?


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Yes, sir; as well as you dare patronage\nThe envious barking of your saucy tongue\nAgainst my lord the Duke of Somerset.


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Villain, thou know'st the law of arms is such\nThat whoso draws a sword, 'tis present death,\nOr else this blow should broach thy dearest blood.\nBut I'll unto his majesty, and crave\nI may have liberty to venge this wrong;\nWhen thou shalt see I'll meet thee to thy cost.


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[Exeunt]\n[Enter KING HENRY VI, GLOUCESTER, BISHOP OF]\nWINCHESTER, YORK, SUFFOLK, SOMERSET, WARWICK,\nTALBOT, EXETER, the Governor, of Paris, and others]


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Now, governor of Paris, take your oath,\nThat you elect no other king but him;\nEsteem none friends but such as are his friends,\nAnd none your foes but such as shall pretend\nMalicious practises against his state:\nThis shall ye do, so help you righteous God!


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My gracious sovereign, as I rode from Calais,\nTo haste unto your coronation,\nA letter was deliver'd to my hands,\nWrit to your grace from the Duke of Burgundy.


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Shame to the Duke of Burgundy and thee!\nI vow'd, base knight, when I did meet thee next,\nTo tear the garter from thy craven's leg,\n[Plucking it off]\nWhich I have done, because unworthily\nThou wast installed in that high degree.\nPardon me, princely Henry, and the rest\nThis dastard, at the battle of Patay,\nWhen but in all I was six thousand strong\nAnd that the French were almost ten to one,\nBefore we met or that a stroke was given,\nLike to a trusty squire did run away:\nIn which assault we lost twelve hundred men;\nMyself and divers gentlemen beside\nWere there surprised and taken prisoners.\nThen judge, great lords, if I have done amiss;\nOr whether that such cowards ought to wear\nThis ornament of knighthood, yea or no.


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To say the truth, this fact was infamous\nAnd ill beseeming any common man,\nMuch more a knight, a captain and a leader.


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When first this order was ordain'd, my lords,\nKnights of the garter were of noble birth,\nValiant and virtuous, full of haughty courage,\nSuch as were grown to credit by the wars;\nNot fearing death, nor shrinking for distress,\nBut always resolute in most extremes.\nHe then that is not furnish'd in this sort\nDoth but usurp the sacred name of knight,\nProfaning this most honourable order,\nAnd should, if I were worthy to be judge,\nBe quite degraded, like a hedge-born swain\nThat doth presume to boast of gentle blood.


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Stain to thy countrymen, thou hear'st thy doom!\nBe packing, therefore, thou that wast a knight:\nHenceforth we banish thee, on pain of death.\n[Exit FASTOLFE]\nAnd now, my lord protector, view the letter\nSent from our uncle Duke of Burgundy.


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What means his grace, that he hath changed his style?\nNo more but, plain and bluntly, 'To the king!'\nHath he forgot he is his sovereign?\nOr doth this churlish superscription\nPretend some alteration in good will?\nWhat's here?\n[Reads]\n'I have, upon especial cause,\nMoved with compassion of my country's wreck,\nTogether with the pitiful complaints\nOf such as your oppression feeds upon,\nForsaken your pernicious faction\nAnd join'd with Charles, the rightful King of France.'\nO monstrous treachery! can this be so,\nThat in alliance, amity and oaths,\nThere should be found such false dissembling guile?


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Why, then, Lord Talbot there shall talk with him\nAnd give him chastisement for this abuse.\nHow say you, my lord? are you not content?


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Then gather strength and march unto him straight:\nLet him perceive how ill we brook his treason\nAnd what offence it is to flout his friends.


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Be patient, lords; and give them leave to speak.\nSay, gentlemen, what makes you thus exclaim?\nAnd wherefore crave you combat? or with whom?


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Crossing the sea from England into France,\nThis fellow here, with envious carping tongue,\nUpbraided me about the rose I wear;\nSaying, the sanguine colour of the leaves\nDid represent my master's blushing cheeks,\nWhen stubbornly he did repugn the truth\nAbout a certain question in the law\nArgued betwixt the Duke of York and him;\nWith other vile and ignominious terms:\nIn confutation of which rude reproach\nAnd in defence of my lord's worthiness,\nI crave the benefit of law of arms.


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And that is my petition, noble lord:\nFor though he seem with forged quaint conceit\nTo set a gloss upon his bold intent,\nYet know, my lord, I was provoked by him;\nAnd he first took exceptions at this badge,\nPronouncing that the paleness of this flower\nBewray'd the faintness of my master's heart.


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Good Lord, what madness rules in brainsick men,\nWhen for so slight and frivolous a cause\nSuch factious emulations shall arise!\nGood cousins both, of York and Somerset,\nQuiet yourselves, I pray, and be at peace.


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Confirm it so! Confounded be your strife!\nAnd perish ye, with your audacious prate!\nPresumptuous vassals, are you not ashamed\nWith this immodest clamorous outrage\nTo trouble and disturb the king and us?\nAnd you, my lords, methinks you do not well\nTo bear with their perverse objections;\nMuch less to take occasion from their mouths\nTo raise a mutiny betwixt yourselves:\nLet me persuade you take a better course.


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Come hither, you that would be combatants:\nHenceforth I charge you, as you love our favour,\nQuite to forget this quarrel and the cause.\nAnd you, my lords, remember where we are,\nIn France, amongst a fickle wavering nation:\nIf they perceive dissension in our looks\nAnd that within ourselves we disagree,\nHow will their grudging stomachs be provoked\nTo wilful disobedience, and rebel!\nBeside, what infamy will there arise,\nWhen foreign princes shall be certified\nThat for a toy, a thing of no regard,\nKing Henry's peers and chief nobility\nDestroy'd themselves, and lost the realm of France!\nO, think upon the conquest of my father,\nMy tender years, and let us not forego\nThat for a trifle that was bought with blood\nLet me be umpire in this doubtful strife.\nI see no reason, if I wear this rose,\n[Putting on a red rose]\nThat any one should therefore be suspicious\nI more incline to Somerset than York:\nBoth are my kinsmen, and I love them both:\nAs well they may upbraid me with my crown,\nBecause, forsooth, the king of Scots is crown'd.\nBut your discretions better can persuade\nThan I am able to instruct or teach:\nAnd therefore, as we hither came in peace,\nSo let us still continue peace and love.\nCousin of York, we institute your grace\nTo be our regent in these parts of France:\nAnd, good my Lord of Somerset, unite\nYour troops of horsemen with his bands of foot;\nAnd, like true subjects, sons of your progenitors,\nGo cheerfully together and digest.\nYour angry choler on your enemies.\nOurself, my lord protector and the rest\nAfter some respite will return to Calais;\nFrom thence to England; where I hope ere long\nTo be presented, by your victories,\nWith Charles, Alencon and that traitorous rout.\n[Flourish. Exeunt all but YORK, WARWICK, EXETER]\nand VERNON]


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Well didst thou, Richard, to suppress thy voice;\nFor, had the passions of thy heart burst out,\nI fear we should have seen decipher'd there\nMore rancorous spite, more furious raging broils,\nThan yet can be imagined or supposed.\nBut howsoe'er, no simple man that sees\nThis jarring discord of nobility,\nThis shouldering of each other in the court,\nThis factious bandying of their favourites,\nBut that it doth presage some ill event.\n'Tis much when sceptres are in children's hands;\nBut more when envy breeds unkind division;\nThere comes the rain, there begins confusion.


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Go to the gates of Bourdeaux, trumpeter:\nSummon their general unto the wall.\n[Trumpet sounds. Enter General and others, aloft]\nEnglish John Talbot, captains, calls you forth,\nServant in arms to Harry King of England;\nAnd thus he would: Open your city gates;\nBe humble to us; call my sovereign yours,\nAnd do him homage as obedient subjects;\nAnd I'll withdraw me and my bloody power:\nBut, if you frown upon this proffer'd peace,\nYou tempt the fury of my three attendants,\nLean famine, quartering steel, and climbing fire;\nWho in a moment even with the earth\nShall lay your stately and air-braving towers,\nIf you forsake the offer of their love.


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Thou ominous and fearful owl of death,\nOur nation's terror and their bloody scourge!\nThe period of thy tyranny approacheth.\nOn us thou canst not enter but by death;\nFor, I protest, we are well fortified\nAnd strong enough to issue out and fight:\nIf thou retire, the Dauphin, well appointed,\nStands with the snares of war to tangle thee:\nOn either hand thee there are squadrons pitch'd,\nTo wall thee from the liberty of flight;\nAnd no way canst thou turn thee for redress,\nBut death doth front thee with apparent spoil\nAnd pale destruction meets thee in the face.\nTen thousand French have ta'en the sacrament\nTo rive their dangerous artillery\nUpon no Christian soul but English Talbot.\nLo, there thou stand'st, a breathing valiant man,\nOf an invincible unconquer'd spirit!\nThis is the latest glory of thy praise\nThat I, thy enemy, due thee withal;\nFor ere the glass, that now begins to run,\nFinish the process of his sandy hour,\nThese eyes, that see thee now well coloured,\nShall see thee wither'd, bloody, pale and dead.\n[Drum afar off]\nHark! hark! the Dauphin's drum, a warning bell,\nSings heavy music to thy timorous soul;\nAnd mine shall ring thy dire departure out.


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He fables not; I hear the enemy:\nOut, some light horsemen, and peruse their wings.\nO, negligent and heedless discipline!\nHow are we park'd and bounded in a pale,\nA little herd of England's timorous deer,\nMazed with a yelping kennel of French curs!\nIf we be English deer, be then in blood;\nNot rascal-like, to fall down with a pinch,\nBut rather, moody-mad and desperate stags,\nTurn on the bloody hounds with heads of steel\nAnd make the cowards stand aloof at bay:\nSell every man his life as dear as mine,\nAnd they shall find dear deer of us, my friends.\nGod and Saint George, Talbot and England's right,\nProsper our colours in this dangerous fight!


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They are return'd, my lord, and give it out\nThat he is march'd to Bourdeaux with his power,\nTo fight with Talbot: as he march'd along,\nBy your espials were discovered\nTwo mightier troops than that the Dauphin led,\nWhich join'd with him and made their march for Bourdeaux.


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A plague upon that villain Somerset,\nThat thus delays my promised supply\nOf horsemen, that were levied for this siege!\nRenowned Talbot doth expect my aid,\nAnd I am lowted by a traitor villain\nAnd cannot help the noble chevalier:\nGod comfort him in this necessity!\nIf he miscarry, farewell wars in France.


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Thou princely leader of our English strength,\nNever so needful on the earth of France,\nSpur to the rescue of the noble Talbot,\nWho now is girdled with a waist of iron\nAnd hemm'd about with grim destruction:\nTo Bourdeaux, warlike duke! to Bourdeaux, York!\nElse, farewell Talbot, France, and England's honour.


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O God, that Somerset, who in proud heart\nDoth stop my cornets, were in Talbot's place!\nSo should we save a valiant gentleman\nBy forfeiting a traitor and a coward.\nMad ire and wrathful fury makes me weep,\nThat thus we die, while remiss traitors sleep.


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He dies, we lose; I break my warlike word;\nWe mourn, France smiles; we lose, they daily get;\nAll 'long of this vile traitor Somerset.


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Then God take mercy on brave Talbot's soul;\nAnd on his son young John, who two hours since\nI met in travel toward his warlike father!\nThis seven years did not Talbot see his son;\nAnd now they meet where both their lives are done.


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Alas, what joy shall noble Talbot have\nTo bid his young son welcome to his grave?\nAway! vexation almost stops my breath,\nThat sunder'd friends greet in the hour of death.\nLucy, farewell; no more my fortune can,\nBut curse the cause I cannot aid the man.\nMaine, Blois, Poictiers, and Tours, are won away,\n'Long all of Somerset and his delay.


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Thus, while the vulture of sedition\nFeeds in the bosom of such great commanders,\nSleeping neglection doth betray to loss\nThe conquest of our scarce cold conqueror,\nThat ever living man of memory,\nHenry the Fifth: whiles they each other cross,\nLives, honours, lands and all hurry to loss.


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It is too late; I cannot send them now:\nThis expedition was by York and Talbot\nToo rashly plotted: all our general force\nMight with a sally of the very town\nBe buckled with: the over-daring Talbot\nHath sullied all his gloss of former honour\nBy this unheedful, desperate, wild adventure:\nYork set him on to fight and die in shame,\nThat, Talbot dead, great York might bear the name.


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Whither, my lord? from bought and sold Lord Talbot;\nWho, ring'd about with bold adversity,\nCries out for noble York and Somerset,\nTo beat assailing death from his weak legions:\nAnd whiles the honourable captain there\nDrops bloody sweat from his war-wearied limbs,\nAnd, in advantage lingering, looks for rescue,\nYou, his false hopes, the trust of England's honour,\nKeep off aloof with worthless emulation.\nLet not your private discord keep away\nThe levied succors that should lend him aid,\nWhile he, renowned noble gentleman,\nYields up his life unto a world of odds:\nOrleans the Bastard, Charles, Burgundy,\nAlencon, Reignier, compass him about,\nAnd Talbot perisheth by your default.


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And York as fast upon your grace exclaims;\nSwearing that you withhold his levied host,\nCollected for this expedition.


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York lies; he might have sent and had the horse;\nI owe him little duty, and less love;\nAnd take foul scorn to fawn on him by sending.


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The fraud of England, not the force of France,\nHath now entrapp'd the noble-minded Talbot:\nNever to England shall he bear his life;\nBut dies, betray'd to fortune by your strife.


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Too late comes rescue: he is ta'en or slain;\nFor fly he could not, if he would have fled;\nAnd fly would Talbot never, though he might.


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O young John Talbot! I did send for thee\nTo tutor thee in stratagems of war,\nThat Talbot's name might be in thee revived\nWhen sapless age and weak unable limbs\nShould bring thy father to his drooping chair.\nBut, O malignant and ill-boding stars!\nNow thou art come unto a feast of death,\nA terrible and unavoided danger:\nTherefore, dear boy, mount on my swiftest horse;\nAnd I'll direct thee how thou shalt escape\nBy sudden flight: come, dally not, be gone.


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Is my name Talbot? and am I your son?\nAnd shall I fly? O if you love my mother,\nDishonour not her honourable name,\nTo make a bastard and a slave of me!\nThe world will say, he is not Talbot's blood,\nThat basely fled when noble Talbot stood.


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Then let me stay; and, father, do you fly:\nYour loss is great, so your regard should be;\nMy worth unknown, no loss is known in me.\nUpon my death the French can little boast;\nIn yours they will, in you all hopes are lost.\nFlight cannot stain the honour you have won;\nBut mine it will, that no exploit have done:\nYou fled for vantage, everyone will swear;\nBut, if I bow, they'll say it was for fear.\nThere is no hope that ever I will stay,\nIf the first hour I shrink and run away.\nHere on my knee I beg mortality,\nRather than life preserved with infamy.


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And shall my youth be guilty of such blame?\nNo more can I be sever'd from your side,\nThan can yourself yourself in twain divide:\nStay, go, do what you will, the like do I;\nFor live I will not, if my father die.


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Then here I take my leave of thee, fair son,\nBorn to eclipse thy life this afternoon.\nCome, side by side together live and die.\nAnd soul with soul from France to heaven fly.


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Saint George and victory! fight, soldiers, fight.\nThe regent hath with Talbot broke his word\nAnd left us to the rage of France his sword.\nWhere is John Talbot? Pause, and take thy breath;\nI gave thee life and rescued thee from death.


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O, twice my father, twice am I thy son!\nThe life thou gavest me first was lost and done,\nTill with thy warlike sword, despite of late,\nTo my determined time thou gavest new date.


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When from the Dauphin's crest thy sword struck fire,\nIt warm'd thy father's heart with proud desire\nOf bold-faced victory. Then leaden age,\nQuicken'd with youthful spleen and warlike rage,\nBeat down Alencon, Orleans, Burgundy,\nAnd from the pride of Gallia rescued thee.\nThe ireful bastard Orleans, that drew blood\nFrom thee, my boy, and had the maidenhood\nOf thy first fight, I soon encountered,\nAnd interchanging blows I quickly shed\nSome of his bastard blood; and in disgrace\nBespoke him thus; 'Contaminated, base\nAnd misbegotten blood I spill of thine,\nMean and right poor, for that pure blood of mine\nWhich thou didst force from Talbot, my brave boy:'\nHere, purposing the Bastard to destroy,\nCame in strong rescue. Speak, thy father's care,\nArt thou not weary, John? how dost thou fare?\nWilt thou yet leave the battle, boy, and fly,\nNow thou art seal'd the son of chivalry?\nFly, to revenge my death when I am dead:\nThe help of one stands me in little stead.\nO, too much folly is it, well I wot,\nTo hazard all our lives in one small boat!\nIf I to-day die not with Frenchmen's rage,\nTo-morrow I shall die with mickle age:\nBy me they nothing gain an if I stay;\n'Tis but the shortening of my life one day:\nIn thee thy mother dies, our household's name,\nMy death's revenge, thy youth, and England's fame:\nAll these and more we hazard by thy stay;\nAll these are saved if thou wilt fly away.


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The sword of Orleans hath not made me smart;\nThese words of yours draw life-blood from my heart:\nOn that advantage, bought with such a shame,\nTo save a paltry life and slay bright fame,\nBefore young Talbot from old Talbot fly,\nThe coward horse that bears me fail and die!\nAnd like me to the peasant boys of France,\nTo be shame's scorn and subject of mischance!\nSurely, by all the glory you have won,\nAn if I fly, I am not Talbot's son:\nThen talk no more of flight, it is no boot;\nIf son to Talbot, die at Talbot's foot.


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Then follow thou thy desperate sire of Crete,\nThou Icarus; thy life to me is sweet:\nIf thou wilt fight, fight by thy father's side;\nAnd, commendable proved, let's die in pride.


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Where is my other life? mine own is gone;\nO, where's young Talbot? where is valiant John?\nTriumphant death, smear'd with captivity,\nYoung Talbot's valour makes me smile at thee:\nWhen he perceived me shrink and on my knee,\nHis bloody sword he brandish'd over me,\nAnd, like a hungry lion, did commence\nRough deeds of rage and stern impatience;\nBut when my angry guardant stood alone,\nTendering my ruin and assail'd of none,\nDizzy-eyed fury and great rage of heart\nSuddenly made him from my side to start\nInto the clustering battle of the French;\nAnd in that sea of blood my boy did drench\nHis over-mounting spirit, and there died,\nMy Icarus, my blossom, in his pride.


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Thou antic death, which laugh'st us here to scorn,\nAnon, from thy insulting tyranny,\nCoupled in bonds of perpetuity,\nTwo Talbots, winged through the lither sky,\nIn thy despite shall 'scape mortality.\nO, thou, whose wounds become hard-favour'd death,\nSpeak to thy father ere thou yield thy breath!\nBrave death by speaking, whether he will or no;\nImagine him a Frenchman and thy foe.\nPoor boy! he smiles, methinks, as who should say,\nHad death been French, then death had died to-day.\nCome, come and lay him in his father's arms:\nMy spirit can no longer bear these harms.\nSoldiers, adieu! I have what I would have,\nNow my old arms are young John Talbot's grave.\n[Dies]\n[Enter CHARLES, ALENCON, BURGUNDY, BASTARD OF]\nORLEANS, JOAN LA PUCELLE, and forces]


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Once I encounter'd him, and thus I said:\n'Thou maiden youth, be vanquish'd by a maid:'\nBut, with a proud majestical high scorn,\nHe answer'd thus: 'Young Talbot was not born\nTo be the pillage of a giglot wench:'\nSo, rushing in the bowels of the French,\nHe left me proudly, as unworthy fight.


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Doubtless he would have made a noble knight;\nSee, where he lies inhearsed in the arms\nOf the most bloody nurser of his harms!


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O, no, forbear! for that which we have fled\nDuring the life, let us not wrong it dead.\n[Enter Sir William LUCY, attended; Herald of the]\nFrench preceding]


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Submission, Dauphin! 'tis a mere French word;\nWe English warriors wot not what it means.\nI come to know what prisoners thou hast ta'en\nAnd to survey the bodies of the dead.


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But where's the great Alcides of the field,\nValiant Lord Talbot, Earl of Shrewsbury,\nCreated, for his rare success in arms,\nGreat Earl of Washford, Waterford and Valence;\nLord Talbot of Goodrig and Urchinfield,\nLord Strange of Blackmere, Lord Verdun of Alton,\nLord Cromwell of Wingfield, Lord Furnival of Sheffield,\nThe thrice-victorious Lord of Falconbridge;\nKnight of the noble order of Saint George,\nWorthy Saint Michael and the Golden Fleece;\nGreat marshal to Henry the Sixth\nOf all his wars within the realm of France?


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Here is a silly stately style indeed!\nThe Turk, that two and fifty kingdoms hath,\nWrites not so tedious a style as this.\nHim that thou magnifiest with all these titles\nStinking and fly-blown lies here at our feet.


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Is Talbot slain, the Frenchmen's only scourge,\nYour kingdom's terror and black Nemesis?\nO, were mine eyeballs into bullets turn'd,\nThat I in rage might shoot them at your faces!\nO, that I could but call these dead to life!\nIt were enough to fright the realm of France:\nWere but his picture left amongst you here,\nIt would amaze the proudest of you all.\nGive me their bodies, that I may bear them hence\nAnd give them burial as beseems their worth.


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I think this upstart is old Talbot's ghost,\nHe speaks with such a proud commanding spirit.\nFor God's sake let him have 'em; to keep them here,\nThey would but stink, and putrefy the air.


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I'll bear them hence; but from their ashes shall be rear'd\nA phoenix that shall make all France afeard.


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So we be rid of them, do with 'em what thou wilt.\nAnd now to Paris, in this conquering vein:\nAll will be ours, now bloody Talbot's slain.


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I have, my lord: and their intent is this:\nThey humbly sue unto your excellence\nTo have a godly peace concluded of\nBetween the realms of England and of France.


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Well, my good lord; and as the only means\nTo stop effusion of our Christian blood\nAnd 'stablish quietness on every side.


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Ay, marry, uncle; for I always thought\nIt was both impious and unnatural\nThat such immanity and bloody strife\nShould reign among professors of one faith.


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Beside, my lord, the sooner to effect\nAnd surer bind this knot of amity,\nThe Earl of Armagnac, near knit to Charles,\nA man of great authority in France,\nProffers his only daughter to your grace\nIn marriage, with a large and sumptuous dowry.


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Marriage, uncle! alas, my years are young!\nAnd fitter is my study and my books\nThan wanton dalliance with a paramour.\nYet call the ambassador; and, as you please,\nSo let them have their answers every one:\nI shall be well content with any choice\nTends to God's glory and my country's weal.\n[Enter CARDINAL OF WINCHESTER in Cardinal's habit,]\na Legate and two Ambassadors]


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What! is my Lord of Winchester install'd,\nAnd call'd unto a cardinal's degree?\nThen I perceive that will be verified\nHenry the Fifth did sometime prophesy,\n'If once he come to be a cardinal,\nHe'll make his cap co-equal with the crown.'


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My lords ambassadors, your several suits\nHave been consider'd and debated on.\nAnd therefore are we certainly resolved\nTo draw conditions of a friendly peace;\nWhich by my Lord of Winchester we mean\nShall be transported presently to France.


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And for the proffer of my lord your master,\nI have inform'd his highness so at large\nAs liking of the lady's virtuous gifts,\nHer beauty and the value of her dower,\nHe doth intend she shall be England's queen.


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In argument and proof of which contract,\nBear her this jewel, pledge of my affection.\nAnd so, my lord protector, see them guarded\nAnd safely brought to Dover; where inshipp'd\nCommit them to the fortune of the sea.


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Stay, my lord legate: you shall first receive\nThe sum of money which I promised\nShould be deliver'd to his holiness\nFor clothing me in these grave ornaments.


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[Aside] Now Winchester will not submit, I trow,\nOr be inferior to the proudest peer.\nHumphrey of Gloucester, thou shalt well perceive\nThat, neither in birth or for authority,\nThe bishop will be overborne by thee:\nI'll either make thee stoop and bend thy knee,\nOr sack this country with a mutiny.


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[Exeunt]\n[Enter CHARLES, BURGUNDY, ALENCON, BASTARD OF]\nORLEANS, REIGNIER, JOAN LA PUCELLE, and forces]


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These news, my lord, may cheer our drooping spirits:\n'Tis said the stout Parisians do revolt\nAnd turn again unto the warlike French.


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The English army, that divided was\nInto two parties, is now conjoined in one,\nAnd means to give you battle presently.


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Of all base passions, fear is most accursed.\nCommand the conquest, Charles, it shall be thine,\nLet Henry fret and all the world repine.


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The regent conquers, and the Frenchmen fly.\nNow help, ye charming spells and periapts;\nAnd ye choice spirits that admonish me\nAnd give me signs of future accidents.\n[Thunder]\nYou speedy helpers, that are substitutes\nUnder the lordly monarch of the north,\nAppear and aid me in this enterprise.\n[Enter Fiends]\nThis speedy and quick appearance argues proof\nOf your accustom'd diligence to me.\nNow, ye familiar spirits, that are cull'd\nOut of the powerful regions under earth,\nHelp me this once, that France may get the field.\n[They walk, and speak not]\nO, hold me not with silence over-long!\nWhere I was wont to feed you with my blood,\nI'll lop a member off and give it you\nIn earnest of further benefit,\nSo you do condescend to help me now.\n[They hang their heads]\nNo hope to have redress? My body shall\nPay recompense, if you will grant my suit.\n[They shake their heads]\nCannot my body nor blood-sacrifice\nEntreat you to your wonted furtherance?\nThen take my soul, my body, soul and all,\nBefore that England give the French the foil.\n[They depart]\nSee, they forsake me! Now the time is come\nThat France must vail her lofty-plumed crest\nAnd let her head fall into England's lap.\nMy ancient incantations are too weak,\nAnd hell too strong for me to buckle with:\nNow, France, thy glory droopeth to the dust.\n[Exit]\n[Excursions. Re-enter JOAN LA PUCELLE fighting hand]\nto hand with YORK. JOAN LA PUCELLE is taken. The\nFrench fly]


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Damsel of France, I think I have you fast:\nUnchain your spirits now with spelling charms\nAnd try if they can gain your liberty.\nA goodly prize, fit for the devil's grace!\nSee, how the ugly wench doth bend her brows,\nAs if with Circe she would change my shape!


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A plaguing mischief light on Charles and thee!\nAnd may ye both be suddenly surprised\nBy bloody hands, in sleeping on your beds!


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Be what thou wilt, thou art my prisoner.\n[Gazes on her]\nO fairest beauty, do not fear nor fly!\nFor I will touch thee but with reverent hands;\nI kiss these fingers for eternal peace,\nAnd lay them gently on thy tender side.\nWho art thou? say, that I may honour thee.


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An earl I am, and Suffolk am I call'd.\nBe not offended, nature's miracle,\nThou art allotted to be ta'en by me:\nSo doth the swan her downy cygnets save,\nKeeping them prisoner underneath her wings.\nYet, if this servile usage once offend.\nGo, and be free again, as Suffolk's friend.\n[She is going]\nO, stay! I have no power to let her pass;\nMy hand would free her, but my heart says no\nAs plays the sun upon the glassy streams,\nTwinkling another counterfeited beam,\nSo seems this gorgeous beauty to mine eyes.\nFain would I woo her, yet I dare not speak:\nI'll call for pen and ink, and write my mind.\nFie, de la Pole! disable not thyself;\nHast not a tongue? is she not here?\nWilt thou be daunted at a woman's sight?\nAy, beauty's princely majesty is such,\nConfounds the tongue and makes the senses rough.


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Say, Earl of Suffolk--if thy name be so--\nWhat ransom must I pay before I pass?\nFor I perceive I am thy prisoner.


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Yet so my fancy may be satisfied,\nAnd peace established between these realms\nBut there remains a scruple in that too;\nFor though her father be the King of Naples,\nDuke of Anjou and Maine, yet is he poor,\nAnd our nobility will scorn the match.


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It shall be so, disdain they ne'er so much.\nHenry is youthful and will quickly yield.\nMadam, I have a secret to reveal.


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To be a queen in bondage is more vile\nThan is a slave in base servility;\nFor princes should be free.


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I'll undertake to make thee Henry's queen,\nTo put a golden sceptre in thy hand\nAnd set a precious crown upon thy head,\nIf thou wilt condescend to be my--


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No, gentle madam; I unworthy am\nTo woo so fair a dame to be his wife,\nAnd have no portion in the choice myself.\nHow say you, madam, are ye so content?


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Then call our captains and our colours forth.\nAnd, madam, at your father's castle walls\nWe'll crave a parley, to confer with him.\n[A parley sounded. Enter REIGNIER on the walls]\nSee, Reignier, see, thy daughter prisoner!


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Yes, there is remedy enough, my lord:\nConsent, and for thy honour give consent,\nThy daughter shall be wedded to my king;\nWhom I with pain have woo'd and won thereto;\nAnd this her easy-held imprisonment\nHath gained thy daughter princely liberty.


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Thanks, Reignier, happy for so sweet a child,\nFit to be made companion with a king:\nWhat answer makes your grace unto my suit?


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Since thou dost deign to woo her little worth\nTo be the princely bride of such a lord;\nUpon condition I may quietly\nEnjoy mine own, the country Maine and Anjou,\nFree from oppression or the stroke of war,\nMy daughter shall be Henry's, if he please.


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That is her ransom; I deliver her;\nAnd those two counties I will undertake\nYour grace shall well and quietly enjoy.


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And I again, in Henry's royal name,\nAs deputy unto that gracious king,\nGive thee her hand, for sign of plighted faith.


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Reignier of France, I give thee kingly thanks,\nBecause this is in traffic of a king.\n[Aside]\nAnd yet, methinks, I could be well content\nTo be mine own attorney in this case.\nI'll over then to England with this news,\nAnd make this marriage to be solemnized.\nSo farewell, Reignier: set this diamond safe\nIn golden palaces, as it becomes.


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Words sweetly placed and modestly directed.\nBut madam, I must trouble you again;\nNo loving token to his majesty?


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O, wert thou for myself! But, Suffolk, stay;\nThou mayst not wander in that labyrinth;\nThere Minotaurs and ugly treasons lurk.\nSolicit Henry with her wondrous praise:\nBethink thee on her virtues that surmount,\nAnd natural graces that extinguish art;\nRepeat their semblance often on the seas,\nThat, when thou comest to kneel at Henry's feet,\nThou mayst bereave him of his wits with wonder.


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Ah, Joan, this kills thy father's heart outright!\nHave I sought every country far and near,\nAnd, now it is my chance to find thee out,\nMust I behold thy timeless cruel death?\nAh, Joan, sweet daughter Joan, I'll die with thee!


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Decrepit miser! base ignoble wretch!\nI am descended of a gentler blood:\nThou art no father nor no friend of mine.


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Out, out! My lords, an please you, 'tis not so;\nI did beget her, all the parish knows:\nHer mother liveth yet, can testify\nShe was the first fruit of my bachelorship.


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Fie, Joan, that thou wilt be so obstacle!\nGod knows thou art a collop of my flesh;\nAnd for thy sake have I shed many a tear:\nDeny me not, I prithee, gentle Joan.


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'Tis true, I gave a noble to the priest\nThe morn that I was wedded to her mother.\nKneel down and take my blessing, good my girl.\nWilt thou not stoop? Now cursed be the time\nOf thy nativity! I would the milk\nThy mother gave thee when thou suck'dst her breast,\nHad been a little ratsbane for thy sake!\nOr else, when thou didst keep my lambs a-field,\nI wish some ravenous wolf had eaten thee!\nDost thou deny thy father, cursed drab?\nO, burn her, burn her! hanging is too good.


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First, let me tell you whom you have condemn'd:\nNot me begotten of a shepherd swain,\nBut issued from the progeny of kings;\nVirtuous and holy; chosen from above,\nBy inspiration of celestial grace,\nTo work exceeding miracles on earth.\nI never had to do with wicked spirits:\nBut you, that are polluted with your lusts,\nStain'd with the guiltless blood of innocents,\nCorrupt and tainted with a thousand vices,\nBecause you want the grace that others have,\nYou judge it straight a thing impossible\nTo compass wonders but by help of devils.\nNo, misconceived! Joan of Arc hath been\nA virgin from her tender infancy,\nChaste and immaculate in very thought;\nWhose maiden blood, thus rigorously effused,\nWill cry for vengeance at the gates of heaven.


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And hark ye, sirs; because she is a maid,\nSpare for no faggots, let there be enow:\nPlace barrels of pitch upon the fatal stake,\nThat so her torture may be shortened.


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Will nothing turn your unrelenting hearts?\nThen, Joan, discover thine infirmity,\nThat warranteth by law to be thy privilege.\nI am with child, ye bloody homicides:\nMurder not then the fruit within my womb,\nAlthough ye hale me to a violent death.


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O, give me leave, I have deluded you:\n'Twas neither Charles nor yet the duke I named,\nBut Reignier, king of Naples, that prevail'd.


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And yet, forsooth, she is a virgin pure.\nStrumpet, thy words condemn thy brat and thee:\nUse no entreaty, for it is in vain.


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Then lead me hence; with whom I leave my curse:\nMay never glorious sun reflex his beams\nUpon the country where you make abode;\nBut darkness and the gloomy shade of death\nEnviron you, till mischief and despair\nDrive you to break your necks or hang yourselves!


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Lord regent, I do greet your excellence\nWith letters of commission from the king.\nFor know, my lords, the states of Christendom,\nMoved with remorse of these outrageous broils,\nHave earnestly implored a general peace\nBetwixt our nation and the aspiring French;\nAnd here at hand the Dauphin and his train\nApproacheth, to confer about some matter.


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Is all our travail turn'd to this effect?\nAfter the slaughter of so many peers,\nSo many captains, gentlemen and soldiers,\nThat in this quarrel have been overthrown\nAnd sold their bodies for their country's benefit,\nShall we at last conclude effeminate peace?\nHave we not lost most part of all the towns,\nBy treason, falsehood and by treachery,\nOur great progenitors had conquered?\nO Warwick, Warwick! I foresee with grief\nThe utter loss of all the realm of France.


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Be patient, York: if we conclude a peace,\nIt shall be with such strict and severe covenants\nAs little shall the Frenchmen gain thereby.\n[Enter CHARLES, ALENCON, BASTARD OF ORLEANS,]\nREIGNIER, and others]


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Since, lords of England, it is thus agreed\nThat peaceful truce shall be proclaim'd in France,\nWe come to be informed by yourselves\nWhat the conditions of that league must be.


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Speak, Winchester; for boiling choler chokes\nThe hollow passage of my poison'd voice,\nBy sight of these our baleful enemies.


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Charles, and the rest, it is enacted thus:\nThat, in regard King Henry gives consent,\nOf mere compassion and of lenity,\nTo ease your country of distressful war,\nAnd suffer you to breathe in fruitful peace,\nYou shall become true liegemen to his crown:\nAnd Charles, upon condition thou wilt swear\nTo pay him tribute, submit thyself,\nThou shalt be placed as viceroy under him,\nAnd still enjoy thy regal dignity.


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Must he be then as shadow of himself?\nAdorn his temples with a coronet,\nAnd yet, in substance and authority,\nRetain but privilege of a private man?\nThis proffer is absurd and reasonless.


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'Tis known already that I am possess'd\nWith more than half the Gallian territories,\nAnd therein reverenced for their lawful king:\nShall I, for lucre of the rest unvanquish'd,\nDetract so much from that prerogative,\nAs to be call'd but viceroy of the whole?\nNo, lord ambassador, I'll rather keep\nThat which I have than, coveting for more,\nBe cast from possibility of all.


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Insulting Charles! hast thou by secret means\nUsed intercession to obtain a league,\nAnd, now the matter grows to compromise,\nStand'st thou aloof upon comparison?\nEither accept the title thou usurp'st,\nOf benefit proceeding from our king\nAnd not of any challenge of desert,\nOr we will plague thee with incessant wars.


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My lord, you do not well in obstinacy\nTo cavil in the course of this contract:\nIf once it be neglected, ten to one\nWe shall not find like opportunity.


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To say the truth, it is your policy\nTo save your subjects from such massacre\nAnd ruthless slaughters as are daily seen\nBy our proceeding in hostility;\nAnd therefore take this compact of a truce,\nAlthough you break it when your pleasure serves.


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Then swear allegiance to his majesty,\nAs thou art knight, never to disobey\nNor be rebellious to the crown of England,\nThou, nor thy nobles, to the crown of England.\nSo, now dismiss your army when ye please:\nHang up your ensign, let your drums be still,\nFor here we entertain a solemn peace.


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Your wondrous rare description, noble earl,\nOf beauteous Margaret hath astonish'd me:\nHer virtues graced with external gifts\nDo breed love's settled passions in my heart:\nAnd like as rigor of tempestuous gusts\nProvokes the mightiest hulk against the tide,\nSo am I driven by breath of her renown\nEither to suffer shipwreck or arrive\nWhere I may have fruition of her love.


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Tush, my good lord, this superficial tale\nIs but a preface of her worthy praise;\nThe chief perfections of that lovely dame\nHad I sufficient skill to utter them,\nWould make a volume of enticing lines,\nAble to ravish any dull conceit:\nAnd, which is more, she is not so divine,\nSo full-replete with choice of all delights,\nBut with as humble lowliness of mind\nShe is content to be at your command;\nCommand, I mean, of virtuous chaste intents,\nTo love and honour Henry as her lord.


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And otherwise will Henry ne'er presume.\nTherefore, my lord protector, give consent\nThat Margaret may be England's royal queen.


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So should I give consent to flatter sin.\nYou know, my lord, your highness is betroth'd\nUnto another lady of esteem:\nHow shall we then dispense with that contract,\nAnd not deface your honour with reproach?


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As doth a ruler with unlawful oaths;\nOr one that, at a triumph having vow'd\nTo try his strength, forsaketh yet the lists\nBy reason of his adversary's odds:\nA poor earl's daughter is unequal odds,\nAnd therefore may be broke without offence.


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Why, what, I pray, is Margaret more than that?\nHer father is no better than an earl,\nAlthough in glorious titles he excel.


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Yes, lord, her father is a king,\nThe King of Naples and Jerusalem;\nAnd of such great authority in France\nAs his alliance will confirm our peace\nAnd keep the Frenchmen in allegiance.


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A dower, my lords! disgrace not so your king,\nThat he should be so abject, base and poor,\nTo choose for wealth and not for perfect love.\nHenry is able to enrich his queen\nAnd not seek a queen to make him rich:\nSo worthless peasants bargain for their wives,\nAs market-men for oxen, sheep, or horse.\nMarriage is a matter of more worth\nThan to be dealt in by attorneyship;\nNot whom we will, but whom his grace affects,\nMust be companion of his nuptial bed:\nAnd therefore, lords, since he affects her most,\nIt most of all these reasons bindeth us,\nIn our opinions she should be preferr'd.\nFor what is wedlock forced but a hell,\nAn age of discord and continual strife?\nWhereas the contrary bringeth bliss,\nAnd is a pattern of celestial peace.\nWhom should we match with Henry, being a king,\nBut Margaret, that is daughter to a king?\nHer peerless feature, joined with her birth,\nApproves her fit for none but for a king:\nHer valiant courage and undaunted spirit,\nMore than in women commonly is seen,\nWill answer our hope in issue of a king;\nFor Henry, son unto a conqueror,\nIs likely to beget more conquerors,\nIf with a lady of so high resolve\nAs is fair Margaret he be link'd in love.\nThen yield, my lords; and here conclude with me\nThat Margaret shall be queen, and none but she.


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Whether it be through force of your report,\nMy noble Lord of Suffolk, or for that\nMy tender youth was never yet attaint\nWith any passion of inflaming love,\nI cannot tell; but this I am assured,\nI feel such sharp dissension in my breast,\nSuch fierce alarums both of hope and fear,\nAs I am sick with working of my thoughts.\nTake, therefore, shipping; post, my lord, to France;\nAgree to any covenants, and procure\nThat Lady Margaret do vouchsafe to come\nTo cross the seas to England and be crown'd\nKing Henry's faithful and anointed queen:\nFor your expenses and sufficient charge,\nAmong the people gather up a tenth.\nBe gone, I say; for, till you do return,\nI rest perplexed with a thousand cares.\nAnd you, good uncle, banish all offence:\nIf you do censure me by what you were,\nNot what you are, I know it will excuse\nThis sudden execution of my will.\nAnd so, conduct me where, from company,\nI may revolve and ruminate my grief.


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Thus Suffolk hath prevail'd; and thus he goes,\nAs did the youthful Paris once to Greece,\nWith hope to find the like event in love,\nBut prosper better than the Trojan did.\nMargaret shall now be queen, and rule the king;\nBut I will rule both her, the king and realm.


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As by your high imperial majesty\nI had in charge at my depart for France,\nAs procurator to your excellence,\nTo marry Princess Margaret for your grace,\nSo, in the famous ancient city, Tours,\nIn presence of the Kings of France and Sicil,\nThe Dukes of Orleans, Calaber, Bretagne and Alencon,\nSeven earls, twelve barons and twenty reverend bishops,\nI have perform'd my task and was espoused:\nAnd humbly now upon my bended knee,\nIn sight of England and her lordly peers,\nDeliver up my title in the queen\nTo your most gracious hands, that are the substance\nOf that great shadow I did represent;\nThe happiest gift that ever marquess gave,\nThe fairest queen that ever king received.


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Suffolk, arise. Welcome, Queen Margaret:\nI can express no kinder sign of love\nThan this kind kiss. O Lord, that lends me life,\nLend me a heart replete with thankfulness!\nFor thou hast given me in this beauteous face\nA world of earthly blessings to my soul,\nIf sympathy of love unite our thoughts.


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Great King of England and my gracious lord,\nThe mutual conference that my mind hath had,\nBy day, by night, waking and in my dreams,\nIn courtly company or at my beads,\nWith you, mine alder-liefest sovereign,\nMakes me the bolder to salute my king\nWith ruder terms, such as my wit affords\nAnd over-joy of heart doth minister.


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Her sight did ravish; but her grace in speech,\nHer words y-clad with wisdom's majesty,\nMakes me from wondering fall to weeping joys;\nSuch is the fulness of my heart's content.\nLords, with one cheerful voice welcome my love.


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My lord protector, so it please your grace,\nHere are the articles of contracted peace\nBetween our sovereign and the French king Charles,\nFor eighteen months concluded by consent.


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[Reads] 'Imprimis, it is agreed between the French\nking Charles, and William de la Pole, Marquess of\nSuffolk, ambassador for Henry King of England, that\nthe said Henry shall espouse the Lady Margaret,\ndaughter unto Reignier King of Naples, Sicilia and\nJerusalem, and crown her Queen of England ere the\nthirtieth of May next ensuing. Item, that the duchy\nof Anjou and the county of Maine shall be released\nand delivered to the king her father'--


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Pardon me, gracious lord;\nSome sudden qualm hath struck me at the heart\nAnd dimm'd mine eyes, that I can read no further.


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[Reads] 'Item, It is further agreed between them,\nthat the duchies of Anjou and Maine shall be\nreleased and delivered over to the king her father,\nand she sent over of the King of England's own\nproper cost and charges, without having any dowry.'


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They please us well. Lord marquess, kneel down:\nWe here create thee the first duke of Suffolk,\nAnd gird thee with the sword. Cousin of York,\nWe here discharge your grace from being regent\nI' the parts of France, till term of eighteen months\nBe full expired. Thanks, uncle Winchester,\nGloucester, York, Buckingham, Somerset,\nSalisbury, and Warwick;\nWe thank you all for the great favour done,\nIn entertainment to my princely queen.\nCome, let us in, and with all speed provide\nTo see her coronation be perform'd.


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Brave peers of England, pillars of the state,\nTo you Duke Humphrey must unload his grief,\nYour grief, the common grief of all the land.\nWhat! did my brother Henry spend his youth,\nHis valour, coin and people, in the wars?\nDid he so often lodge in open field,\nIn winter's cold and summer's parching heat,\nTo conquer France, his true inheritance?\nAnd did my brother Bedford toil his wits,\nTo keep by policy what Henry got?\nHave you yourselves, Somerset, Buckingham,\nBrave York, Salisbury, and victorious Warwick,\nReceived deep scars in France and Normandy?\nOr hath mine uncle Beaufort and myself,\nWith all the learned council of the realm,\nStudied so long, sat in the council-house\nEarly and late, debating to and fro\nHow France and Frenchmen might be kept in awe,\nAnd had his highness in his infancy\nCrowned in Paris in despite of foes?\nAnd shall these labours and these honours die?\nShall Henry's conquest, Bedford's vigilance,\nYour deeds of war and all our counsel die?\nO peers of England, shameful is this league!\nFatal this marriage, cancelling your fame,\nBlotting your names from books of memory,\nRazing the characters of your renown,\nDefacing monuments of conquer'd France,\nUndoing all, as all had never been!


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Nephew, what means this passionate discourse,\nThis peroration with such circumstance?\nFor France, 'tis ours; and we will keep it still.


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Ay, uncle, we will keep it, if we can;\nBut now it is impossible we should:\nSuffolk, the new-made duke that rules the roast,\nHath given the duchy of Anjou and Maine\nUnto the poor King Reignier, whose large style\nAgrees not with the leanness of his purse.


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Now, by the death of Him that died for all,\nThese counties were the keys of Normandy.\nBut wherefore weeps Warwick, my valiant son?


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For grief that they are past recovery:\nFor, were there hope to conquer them again,\nMy sword should shed hot blood, mine eyes no tears.\nAnjou and Maine! myself did win them both;\nThose provinces these arms of mine did conquer:\nAnd are the cities, that I got with wounds,\nDelivered up again with peaceful words?\nMort Dieu!


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For Suffolk's duke, may he be suffocate,\nThat dims the honour of this warlike isle!\nFrance should have torn and rent my very heart,\nBefore I would have yielded to this league.\nI never read but England's kings have had\nLarge sums of gold and dowries with their wives:\nAnd our King Henry gives away his own,\nTo match with her that brings no vantages.


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A proper jest, and never heard before,\nThat Suffolk should demand a whole fifteenth\nFor costs and charges in transporting her!\nShe should have stayed in France and starved\nin France, Before--


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My Lord of Winchester, I know your mind;\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 fury: 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.


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So, there goes our protector in a rage.\n'Tis known to you he is mine enemy,\nNay, more, an enemy unto you all,\nAnd no great friend, I fear me, to the king.\nConsider, lords, he is the next of blood,\nAnd heir apparent to the English crown:\nHad Henry got an empire by his marriage,\nAnd all the wealthy kingdoms of the west,\nThere's reason he should be displeased at it.\nLook to it, lords! let not his smoothing words\nBewitch your hearts; be wise and circumspect.\nWhat though the common people favour him,\nCalling him 'Humphrey, the good Duke of\nGloucester,'\nClapping their hands, and crying with loud voice,\n'Jesu maintain your royal excellence!'\nWith 'God preserve the good Duke Humphrey!'\nI fear me, lords, for all this flattering gloss,\nHe will be found a dangerous protector.


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Why should he, then, protect our sovereign,\nHe being of age to govern of himself?\nCousin of Somerset, join you with me,\nAnd all together, with the Duke of Suffolk,\nWe'll quickly hoise Duke Humphrey from his seat.


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Cousin of Buckingham, though Humphrey's pride\nAnd greatness of his place be grief to us,\nYet let us watch the haughty cardinal:\nHis insolence is more intolerable\nThan all the princes in the land beside:\nIf Gloucester be displaced, he'll be protector.


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Pride went before, ambition follows him.\nWhile these do labour for their own preferment,\nBehoves it us to labour for the realm.\nI never saw but Humphrey Duke of Gloucester\nDid bear him like a noble gentleman.\nOft have I seen the haughty cardinal,\nMore like a soldier than a man o' the church,\nAs stout and proud as he were lord of all,\nSwear like a ruffian and demean himself\nUnlike the ruler of a commonweal.\nWarwick, my son, the comfort of my age,\nThy deeds, thy plainness and thy housekeeping,\nHath won the greatest favour of the commons,\nExcepting none but good Duke Humphrey:\nAnd, brother York, thy acts in Ireland,\nIn bringing them to civil discipline,\nThy late exploits done in the heart of France,\nWhen thou wert regent for our sovereign,\nHave made thee fear'd and honour'd of the people:\nJoin we together, for the public good,\nIn what we can, to bridle and suppress\nThe pride of Suffolk and the cardinal,\nWith Somerset's and Buckingham's ambition;\nAnd, as we may, cherish Duke Humphrey's deeds,\nWhile they do tend the profit of the land.


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Unto the main! O father, Maine is lost;\nThat Maine which by main force Warwick did win,\nAnd would have 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 slain,


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Anjou and Maine are given to the French;\nParis is lost; the state of Normandy\nStands on a tickle point, now they are gone:\nSuffolk concluded on the articles,\nThe peers agreed, and Henry was well pleased\nTo change two dukedoms for a duke's fair daughter.\nI cannot blame them all: what is't to them?\n'Tis thine they give away, and not their own.\nPirates may make cheap pennyworths of their pillage\nAnd purchase friends and give to courtezans,\nStill revelling like lords till all be gone;\nWhile as the silly owner of the goods\nWeeps over them and wrings his hapless hands\nAnd shakes his head and trembling stands aloof,\nWhile all is shared and all is borne away,\nReady to starve and dare not touch his own:\nSo York must sit and fret and bite his tongue,\nWhile his own lands are bargain'd for and sold.\nMethinks the realms of England, France and Ireland\nBear that proportion to my flesh and blood\nAs did the fatal brand Althaea burn'd\nUnto the prince's heart of Calydon.\nAnjou and Maine both given unto the French!\nCold news for me, for I had hope of France,\nEven as I have of fertile England's soil.\nA day will come when York shall claim his own;\nAnd therefore I will take the Nevils' parts\nAnd make a show of love to proud Duke Humphrey,\nAnd, when I spy advantage, claim the crown,\nFor that's the golden mark I seek to hit:\nNor shall proud Lancaster usurp my right,\nNor hold the sceptre in his childish fist,\nNor wear the diadem upon his head,\nWhose church-like humours fits not for a crown.\nThen, York, be still awhile, till time do serve:\nWatch thou and wake when others be asleep,\nTo pry into the secrets of the state;\nTill Henry, surfeiting in joys of love,\nWith his new bride and England's dear-bought queen,\nAnd Humphrey with the peers be fall'n at jars:\nThen will I raise aloft the milk-white rose,\nWith whose sweet smell the air shall be perfumed;\nAnd in my standard bear the arms of York\nTo grapple with the house of Lancaster;\nAnd, force perforce, I'll make him yield the crown,\nWhose bookish rule hath pull'd fair England down.


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Why droops my lord, like over-ripen'd corn,\nHanging the head at Ceres' plenteous load?\nWhy doth the great Duke Humphrey knit his brows,\nAs frowning at the favours of the world?\nWhy are thine eyes fixed to the sullen earth,\nGazing on that which seems to dim thy sight?\nWhat seest thou there? King Henry's diadem,\nEnchased with all the honours of the world?\nIf so, gaze on, and grovel on thy face,\nUntil thy head be circled with the same.\nPut forth thy hand, reach at the glorious gold.\nWhat, is't too short? I'll lengthen it with mine:\nAnd, having both together heaved it up,\nWe'll both together lift our heads to heaven,\nAnd never more abase our sight so low\nAs to vouchsafe one glance unto the ground.


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O Nell, sweet Nell, if thou dost love thy lord,\nBanish the canker of ambitious thoughts.\nAnd may that thought, when I imagine ill\nAgainst my king and nephew, virtuous Henry,\nBe my last breathing in this mortal world!\nMy troublous dream this night doth make me sad.


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Methought this staff, mine office-badge in court,\nWas broke in twain; by whom I have forgot,\nBut, as I think, it was by the cardinal;\nAnd on the pieces of the broken wand\nWere placed the heads of Edmund Duke of Somerset,\nAnd William de la Pole, first duke of Suffolk.\nThis was my dream: what it doth bode, God knows.


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Tut, this was nothing but an argument\nThat he that breaks a stick of Gloucester's grove\nShall lose his head for his presumption.\nBut list to me, my Humphrey, my sweet duke:\nMethought I sat in seat of majesty\nIn the cathedral church of Westminster,\nAnd in that chair where kings and queens are crown'd;\nWhere Henry and dame Margaret kneel'd to me\nAnd on my head did set the diadem.


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Nay, Eleanor, then must I chide outright:\nPresumptuous dame, ill-nurtured Eleanor,\nArt thou not second woman in the realm,\nAnd the protector's wife, beloved of him?\nHast thou not worldly pleasure at command,\nAbove the reach or compass of thy thought?\nAnd wilt thou still be hammering treachery,\nTo tumble down thy husband and thyself\nFrom top of honour to disgrace's feet?\nAway from me, and let me hear no more!


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What, what, my lord! are you so choleric\nWith Eleanor, for telling but her dream?\nNext time I'll keep my dreams unto myself,\nAnd not be cheque'd.


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My lord protector, 'tis his highness' pleasure\nYou do prepare to ride unto Saint Alban's,\nWhere as the king and queen do mean to hawk.


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Yes, my good lord, I'll follow presently.\n[Exeunt GLOUCESTER and Messenger]\nFollow I must; I cannot go before,\nWhile Gloucester bears this base and humble mind.\nWere I a man, a duke, and next of blood,\nI would remove these tedious stumbling-blocks\nAnd smooth my way upon their headless necks;\nAnd, being a woman, I will not be slack\nTo play my part in Fortune's pageant.\nWhere are you there? Sir John! nay, fear not, man,\nWe are alone; here's none but thee and I.


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What say'st thou, man? hast thou as yet conferr'd\nWith Margery Jourdain, the cunning witch,\nWith Roger Bolingbroke, the conjurer?\nAnd will they undertake to do me good?


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This they have promised, to show your highness\nA spirit raised from depth of under-ground,\nThat shall make answer to such questions\nAs by your grace shall be propounded him.


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It is enough; I'll think upon the questions:\nWhen from St. Alban's we do make return,\nWe'll see these things effected to the full.\nHere, Hume, take this reward; make merry, man,\nWith thy confederates in this weighty cause.


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Hume must make merry with the duchess' gold;\nMarry, and shall. But how now, Sir John Hume!\nSeal up your lips, and give no words but mum:\nThe business asketh silent secrecy.\nDame Eleanor gives gold to bring the witch:\nGold cannot come amiss, were she a devil.\nYet have I gold flies from another coast;\nI dare not say, from the rich cardinal\nAnd from the great and new-made Duke of Suffolk,\nYet I do find it so; for to be plain,\nThey, knowing Dame Eleanor's aspiring humour,\nHave hired me to undermine the duchess\nAnd buz these conjurations in her brain.\nThey say 'A crafty knave does need no broker;'\nYet am I Suffolk and the cardinal's broker.\nHume, if you take not heed, you shall go near\nTo call them both a pair of crafty knaves.\nWell, so it stands; and thus, I fear, at last\nHume's knavery will be the duchess' wreck,\nAnd her attainture will be Humphrey's fall:\nSort how it will, I shall have gold for all.


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My masters, let's stand close: my lord protector\nwill come this way by and by, and then we may deliver\nour supplications in the quill.


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[Reading] 'To my Lord Protector!' Are your\nsupplications to his lordship? Let me see them:\nwhat is thine?


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Mine is, an't please your grace, against John\nGoodman, my lord cardinal's man, for keeping my\nhouse, and lands, and wife and all, from me.


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Thy wife, too! that's some wrong, indeed. What's\nyours? What's here!\n[Reads]\n'Against the Duke of Suffolk, for enclosing the\ncommons of Melford.' How now, sir knave!


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[Giving his petition] Against my master, Thomas\nHorner, for saying that the Duke of York was rightful\nheir to the crown.


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Who is there?\n[Enter Servant]\nTake this fellow in, and send for\nhis master with a pursuivant presently: we'll hear\nmore of your matter before the King.


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And as for you, that love to be protected\nUnder the wings of our protector's grace,\nBegin your suits anew, and sue to him.\n[Tears the supplication]\nAway, base cullions! Suffolk, let them go.


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My Lord of Suffolk, say, is this the guise,\nIs this the fashion in the court of England?\nIs this the government of Britain's isle,\nAnd this the royalty of Albion's king?\nWhat shall King Henry be a pupil still\nUnder the surly Gloucester's governance?\nAm I a queen in title and in style,\nAnd must be made a subject to a duke?\nI tell thee, Pole, when in the city Tours\nThou ran'st a tilt in honour of my love\nAnd stolest away the ladies' hearts of France,\nI thought King Henry had resembled thee\nIn courage, courtship and proportion:\nBut all his mind is bent to holiness,\nTo number Ave-Maries on his beads;\nHis champions are the prophets and apostles,\nHis weapons holy saws of sacred writ,\nHis study is his tilt-yard, and his loves\nAre brazen images of canonized saints.\nI would the college of the cardinals\nWould choose him pope, and carry him to Rome,\nAnd set the triple crown upon his head:\nThat were a state fit for his holiness.


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Madam, be patient: as I was cause\nYour highness came to England, so will I\nIn England work your grace's full content.


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Beside the haughty protector, have we Beaufort,\nThe imperious churchman, Somerset, Buckingham,\nAnd grumbling York: and not the least of these\nBut can do more in England than the king.


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And he of these that can do most of all\nCannot do more in England than the Nevils:\nSalisbury and Warwick are no simple peers.


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Not all these lords do vex me half so much\nAs that proud dame, the lord protector's wife.\nShe sweeps it through the court with troops of ladies,\nMore like an empress than Duke Humphrey's wife:\nStrangers in court do take her for the queen:\nShe bears a duke's revenues on her back,\nAnd in her heart she scorns our poverty:\nShall I not live to be avenged on her?\nContemptuous base-born callet as she is,\nShe vaunted 'mongst her minions t'other day,\nThe very train of her worst wearing gown\nWas better worth than all my father's lands,\nTill Suffolk gave two dukedoms for his daughter.


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Madam, myself have limed a bush for her,\nAnd placed a quire of such enticing birds,\nThat she will light to listen to the lays,\nAnd never mount to trouble you again.\nSo, let her rest: and, madam, list to me;\nFor I am bold to counsel you in this.\nAlthough we fancy not the cardinal,\nYet must we join with him and with the lords,\nTill we have brought Duke Humphrey in disgrace.\nAs for the Duke of York, this late complaint\nWill make but little for his benefit.\nSo, one by one, we'll weed them all at last,\nAnd you yourself shall steer the happy helm.\n[Sound a sennet. Enter KING HENRY VI, GLOUCESTER,]\nCARDINAL, BUCKINGHAM, YORK, SOMERSET, SALISBURY,\nWARWICK, and the DUCHESS]


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Resign it then and leave thine insolence.\nSince thou wert king--as who is king but thou?--\nThe commonwealth hath daily run to wreck;\nThe Dauphin hath prevail'd beyond the seas;\nAnd all the peers and nobles of the realm\nHave been as bondmen to thy sovereignty.


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Thy cruelty in execution\nUpon offenders, hath exceeded law,\nAnd left thee to the mercy of the law.


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They sale of offices and towns in France,\nIf they were known, as the suspect is great,\nWould make thee quickly hop without thy head.\n[Exit GLOUCESTER. QUEEN MARGARET drops her fan]\nGive me my fan: what, minion! can ye not?\n[She gives the DUCHESS a box on the ear]\nI cry you mercy, madam; was it you?


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Was't I! yea, I it was, proud Frenchwoman:\nCould I come near your beauty with my nails,\nI'd set my ten commandments in your face.


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Against her will! good king, look to't in time;\nShe'll hamper thee, and dandle thee like a baby:\nThough in this place most master wear no breeches,\nShe shall not strike Dame Eleanor unrevenged.


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Lord cardinal, I will follow Eleanor,\nAnd listen after Humphrey, how he proceeds:\nShe's tickled now; her fume needs no spurs,\nShe'll gallop far enough to her destruction.


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Now, lords, my choler being over-blown\nWith walking once about the quadrangle,\nI come to talk of commonwealth affairs.\nAs for your spiteful false objections,\nProve them, and I lie open to the law:\nBut God in mercy so deal with my soul,\nAs I in duty love my king and country!\nBut, to the matter that we have in hand:\nI say, my sovereign, York is meetest man\nTo be your regent in the realm of France.


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Before we make election, give me leave\nTo show some reason, of no little force,\nThat York is most unmeet of any man.


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I'll tell thee, Suffolk, why I am unmeet:\nFirst, for I cannot flatter thee in pride;\nNext, if I be appointed for the place,\nMy Lord of Somerset will keep me here,\nWithout discharge, money, or furniture,\nTill France be won into the Dauphin's hands:\nLast time, I danced attendance on his will\nTill Paris was besieged, famish'd, and lost.


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Image of pride, why should I hold my peace?\n[Enter HORNER, the Armourer, and his man]\nPETER, guarded]


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Please it your majesty, this is the man\nThat doth accuse his master of high treason:\nHis words were these: that Richard, Duke of York,\nWas rightful heir unto the English crown\nAnd that your majesty was a usurper.


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An't shall please your majesty, I never said nor\nthought any such matter: God is my witness, I am\nfalsely accused by the villain.


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By these ten bones, my lords, he did speak them to\nme in the garret one night, as we were scouring my\nLord of York's armour.


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Base dunghill villain and mechanical,\nI'll have thy head for this thy traitor's speech.\nI do beseech your royal majesty,\nLet him have all the rigor of the law.


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Alas, my lord, hang me, if ever I spake the words.\nMy accuser is my 'prentice; and when I did correct\nhim for his fault the other day, he did vow upon his\nknees he would be even with me: I have good\nwitness of this: therefore I beseech your majesty,\ndo not cast away an honest man for a villain's\naccusation.


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This doom, my lord, if I may judge:\nLet Somerset be regent over the French,\nBecause in York this breeds suspicion:\nAnd let these have a day appointed them\nFor single combat in convenient place,\nFor he hath witness of his servant's malice:\nThis is the law, and this Duke Humphrey's doom.


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Alas, my lord, I cannot fight; for God's sake, pity\nmy case. The spite of man prevaileth against me. O\nLord, have mercy upon me! I shall never be able to\nfight a blow. O Lord, my heart!


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Away with them to prison; and the day of combat\nshall be the last of the next month. Come,\nSomerset, we'll see thee sent away.


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I have heard her reported to be a woman of an\ninvincible spirit: but it shall be convenient,\nMaster Hume, that you be by her aloft, while we be\nbusy below; and so, I pray you, go, in God's name,\nand leave us.\n[Exit HUME]\nMother Jourdain, be you\nprostrate and grovel on the earth; John Southwell,\nread you; and let us to our work.


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Patience, good lady; wizards know their times:\nDeep night, dark night, the silent of the night,\nThe time of night when Troy was set on fire;\nThe time when screech-owls cry and ban-dogs howl,\nAnd spirits walk and ghosts break up their graves,\nThat time best fits the work we have in hand.\nMadam, sit you and fear not: whom we raise,\nWe will make fast within a hallow'd verge.\n[Here they do the ceremonies belonging, and make the]\ncircle; BOLINGBROKE or SOUTHWELL reads, Conjuro te,\n&c. It thunders and lightens terribly; then the\nSpirit riseth]


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Asmath,\nBy the eternal God, whose name and power\nThou tremblest at, answer that I shall ask;\nFor, till thou speak, thou shalt not pass from hence.


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Let him shun castles;\nSafer shall he be upon the sandy plains\nThan where castles mounted stand.\nHave done, for more I hardly can endure.


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Descend to darkness and the burning lake!\nFalse fiend, avoid!\n[Thunder and lightning. Exit Spirit]\n[Enter YORK and BUCKINGHAM with their Guard]\nand break in]


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Lay hands upon these traitors and their trash.\nBeldam, I think we watch'd you at an inch.\nWhat, madam, are you there? the king and commonweal\nAre deeply indebted for this piece of pains:\nMy lord protector will, I doubt it not,\nSee you well guerdon'd for these good deserts.


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True, madam, none at all: what call you this?\nAway with them! let them be clapp'd up close.\nAnd kept asunder. You, madam, shall with us.\nStafford, take her to thee.\n[Exeunt above DUCHESS and HUME, guarded]\nWe'll see your trinkets here all forthcoming.\nAll, away!


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Lord Buckingham, methinks, you watch'd her well:\nA pretty plot, well chosen to build upon!\nNow, pray, my lord, let's see the devil's writ.\nWhat have we here?\n[Reads]\n'The duke yet lives, that Henry shall depose;\nBut him outlive, and die a violent death.'\nWhy, this is just\n'Aio te, AEacida, Romanos vincere posse.'\nWell, to the rest:\n'Tell me what fate awaits the Duke of Suffolk?\nBy water shall he die, and take his end.\nWhat shall betide the Duke of Somerset?\nLet him shun castles;\nSafer shall he be upon the sandy plains\nThan where castles mounted stand.'\nCome, come, my lords;\nThese oracles are hardly attain'd,\nAnd hardly understood.\nThe king is now in progress towards Saint Alban's,\nWith him the husband of this lovely lady:\nThither go these news, as fast as horse can\ncarry them:\nA sorry breakfast for my lord protector.


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At your pleasure, my good lord. Who's within\nthere, ho!\n[Enter a Servingman]\nInvite my Lords of Salisbury and Warwick\nTo sup with me to-morrow night. Away!


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[Exeunt]\n[Enter KING HENRY VI, QUEEN MARGARET, GLOUCESTER,]\nCARDINAL, and SUFFOLK, with Falconers halloing]


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Believe me, lords, for flying at the brook,\nI saw not better sport these seven years' day:\nYet, by your leave, the wind was very high;\nAnd, ten to one, old Joan had not gone out.


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But what a point, my lord, your falcon made,\nAnd what a pitch she flew above the rest!\nTo see how God in all his creatures works!\nYea, man and birds are fain of climbing high.


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No marvel, an it like your majesty,\nMy lord protector's hawks do tower so well;\nThey know their master loves to be aloft,\nAnd bears his thoughts above his falcon's pitch.


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Thy heaven is on earth; thine eyes and thoughts\nBeat on a crown, the treasure of thy heart;\nPernicious protector, dangerous peer,\nThat smooth'st it so with king and commonweal!


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What, cardinal, is your priesthood grown peremptory?\nTantaene animis coelestibus irae?\nChurchmen so hot? good uncle, hide such malice;\nWith such holiness can you do it?


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I prithee, peace, good queen,\nAnd whet not on these furious peers;\nFor blessed are the peacemakers on earth.


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[Aside to CARDINAL] Make up no factious\nnumbers for the matter;\nIn thine own person answer thy abuse.


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[Aside to GLOUCESTER] Ay, where thou darest\nnot peep: an if thou darest,\nThis evening, on the east side of the grove.


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Believe me, cousin Gloucester,\nHad not your man put up the fowl so suddenly,\nWe had had more sport.\n[Aside to GLOUCESTER]\nCome with thy two-hand sword.


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Talking of hawking; nothing else, my lord.\n[Aside to CARDINAL]\nNow, by God's mother, priest, I'll shave your crown for this,\nOr all my fence shall fail.


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The winds grow high; so do your stomachs, lords.\nHow irksome is this music to my heart!\nWhen such strings jar, what hope of harmony?\nI pray, my lords, let me compound this strife.


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Forsooth, a blind man at Saint Alban's shrine,\nWithin this half-hour, hath received his sight;\nA man that ne'er saw in his life before.


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Now, God be praised, that to believing souls\nGives light in darkness, comfort in despair!\n[Enter the Mayor of Saint Alban's and his]\nbrethren, bearing SIMPCOX, between two in a\nchair, SIMPCOX's Wife following]


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Good fellow, tell us here the circumstance,\nThat we for thee may glorify the Lord.\nWhat, hast thou been long blind and now restored?


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Poor soul, God's goodness hath been great to thee:\nLet never day nor night unhallow'd pass,\nBut still remember what the Lord hath done.


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God knows, of pure devotion; being call'd\nA hundred times and oftener, in my sleep,\nBy good Saint Alban; who said, 'Simpcox, come,\nCome, offer at my shrine, and I will help thee.'


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A subtle knave! but yet it shall not serve.\nLet me see thine eyes: wink now: now open them:\nIn my opinion yet thou seest not well.


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Then, Saunder, sit there, the lyingest knave in\nChristendom. If thou hadst been born blind, thou\nmightest as well have known all our names as thus to\nname the several colours we do wear. Sight may\ndistinguish of colours, but suddenly to nominate them\nall, it is impossible. My lords, Saint Alban here\nhath done a miracle; and would ye not think his\ncunning to be great, that could restore this cripple\nto his legs again?


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Now fetch me a stool hither by and by. Now, sirrah,\nif you mean to save yourself from whipping, leap me\nover this stool and run away.


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Well, sir, we must have you find your legs. Sirrah\nbeadle, whip him till he leap over that same stool.


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Alas, master, what shall I do? I am not able to stand.\n[After the Beadle hath hit him once, he leaps over]\nthe stool and runs away; and they follow and cry, 'A miracle!']


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Such as my heart doth tremble to unfold.\nA sort of naughty persons, lewdly bent,\nUnder the countenance and confederacy\nOf Lady Eleanor, the protector's wife,\nThe ringleader and head of all this rout,\nHave practised dangerously against your state,\nDealing with witches and with conjurers:\nWhom we have apprehended in the fact;\nRaising up wicked spirits from under ground,\nDemanding of King Henry's life and death,\nAnd other of your highness' privy-council;\nAs more at large your grace shall understand.


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[Aside to GLOUCESTER] And so, my lord protector,\nby this means\nYour lady is forthcoming yet at London.\nThis news, I think, hath turn'd your weapon's edge;\n'Tis like, my lord, you will not keep your hour.


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Ambitious churchman, leave to afflict my heart:\nSorrow and grief have vanquish'd all my powers;\nAnd, vanquish'd as I am, I yield to thee,\nOr to the meanest groom.


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Madam, for myself, to heaven I do appeal,\nHow I have loved my king and commonweal:\nAnd, for my wife, I know not how it stands;\nSorry I am to hear what I have heard:\nNoble she is, but if she have forgot\nHonour and virtue and conversed with such\nAs, like to pitch, defile nobility,\nI banish her my bed and company\nAnd give her as a prey to law and shame,\nThat hath dishonour'd Gloucester's honest name.


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Well, for this night we will repose us here:\nTo-morrow toward London back again,\nTo look into this business thoroughly\nAnd call these foul offenders to their answers\nAnd poise the cause in justice' equal scales,\nWhose beam stands sure, whose rightful cause prevails.


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Now, my good Lords of Salisbury and Warwick,\nOur simple supper ended, give me leave\nIn this close walk to satisfy myself,\nIn craving your opinion of my title,\nWhich is infallible, to England's crown.


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Then thus:\nEdward the Third, my lords, had seven sons:\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 John of Gaunt, the Duke of Lancaster;\nThe fifth was Edmund Langley, Duke of York;\nThe sixth was Thomas of Woodstock, Duke of Gloucester;\nWilliam of Windsor was the seventh and last.\nEdward the Black Prince died before his father\nAnd left behind him Richard, his only son,\nWho after Edward the Third's death reign'd as king;\nTill Henry Bolingbroke, Duke of Lancaster,\nThe eldest son and heir of John of Gaunt,\nCrown'd by the name of Henry the Fourth,\nSeized on the realm, deposed the rightful king,\nSent his poor queen to France, from whence she came,\nAnd him to Pomfret; where, as all you know,\nHarmless Richard was murder'd traitorously.


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Which now they hold by force and not by right;\nFor Richard, the first son's heir, being dead,\nThe issue of the next son should have reign'd.


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The third son, Duke of Clarence, from whose line\nI claimed the crown, had issue, Philippe, a daughter,\nWho married Edmund Mortimer, Earl of March:\nEdmund had issue, Roger Earl of March;\nRoger had issue, Edmund, Anne and Eleanor.


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This Edmund, in the reign of Bolingbroke,\nAs I have read, laid claim unto the crown;\nAnd, but for Owen Glendower, had been king,\nWho kept him in captivity till he died.\nBut to the rest.


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His eldest sister, Anne,\nMy mother, being heir unto the crown\nMarried Richard Earl of Cambridge; who was son\nTo Edmund Langley, Edward the Third's fifth son.\nBy her I claim the kingdom: she was heir\nTo Roger Earl of March, who was the son\nOf Edmund Mortimer, who married Philippe,\nSole daughter unto Lionel Duke of Clarence:\nSo, if the issue of the elder son\nSucceed before the younger, I am king.


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What plain proceeding is more plain than this?\nHenry doth claim the crown from John of Gaunt,\nThe fourth son; York claims it from the third.\nTill Lionel's issue fails, his should not reign:\nIt fails not yet, but flourishes in thee\nAnd in thy sons, fair slips of such a stock.\nThen, father Salisbury, kneel we together;\nAnd in this private plot be we the first\nThat shall salute our rightful sovereign\nWith honour of his birthright to the crown.


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We thank you, lords. But I am not your king\nTill I be crown'd and that my sword be stain'd\nWith heart-blood of the house of Lancaster;\nAnd that's not suddenly to be perform'd,\nBut with advice and silent secrecy.\nDo you as I do in these dangerous days:\nWink at the Duke of Suffolk's insolence,\nAt Beaufort's pride, at Somerset's ambition,\nAt Buckingham and all the crew of them,\nTill they have snared the shepherd of the flock,\nThat virtuous prince, the good Duke Humphrey:\n'Tis that they seek, and they in seeking that\nShall find their deaths, if York can prophesy.


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And, Nevil, this I do assure myself:\nRichard shall live to make the Earl of Warwick\nThe greatest man in England but the king.


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[Exeunt]\n[Sound trumpets. Enter KING HENRY VI, QUEEN]\nMARGARET, GLOUCESTER, YORK, SUFFOLK, and SALISBURY;\nthe DUCHESS, MARGARET JOURDAIN, SOUTHWELL, HUME,\nand BOLINGBROKE, under guard]


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Stand forth, Dame Eleanor Cobham, Gloucester's wife:\nIn sight of God and us, your guilt is great:\nReceive the sentence of the law for sins\nSuch as by God's book are adjudged to death.\nYou four, from hence to prison back again;\nFrom thence unto the place of execution:\nThe witch in Smithfield shall be burn'd to ashes,\nAnd you three shall be strangled on the gallows.\nYou, madam, for you are more nobly born,\nDespoiled of your honour in your life,\nShall, after three days' open penance done,\nLive in your country here in banishment,\nWith Sir John Stanley, in the Isle of Man.


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Eleanor, the law, thou see'st, hath judged thee:\nI cannot justify whom the law condemns.\n[Exeunt DUCHESS and other prisoners, guarded]\nMine eyes are full of tears, my heart of grief.\nAh, Humphrey, this dishonour in thine age\nWill bring thy head with sorrow to the ground!\nI beseech your majesty, give me leave to go;\nSorrow would solace and mine age would ease.


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Stay, Humphrey Duke of Gloucester: ere thou go,\nGive up thy staff: Henry will to himself\nProtector be; and God shall be my hope,\nMy stay, my guide and lantern to my feet:\nAnd go in peace, Humphrey, no less beloved\nThan when thou wert protector to thy King.


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I see no reason why a king of years\nShould be to be protected like a child.\nGod and King Henry govern England's realm.\nGive up your staff, sir, and the king his realm.


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My staff? here, noble Henry, is my staff:\nAs willingly do I the same resign\nAs e'er thy father Henry made it mine;\nAnd even as willingly at thy feet I leave it\nAs others would ambitiously receive it.\nFarewell, good king: when I am dead and gone,\nMay honourable peace attend thy throne!


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Why, now is Henry king, and Margaret queen;\nAnd Humphrey Duke of Gloucester scarce himself,\nThat bears so shrewd a maim; two pulls at once;\nHis lady banish'd, and a limb lopp'd off.\nThis staff of honour raught, there let it stand\nWhere it best fits to be, in Henry's hand.


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Lords, let him go. Please it your majesty,\nThis is the day appointed for the combat;\nAnd ready are the appellant and defendant,\nThe armourer and his man, to enter the lists,\nSo please your highness to behold the fight.


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I never saw a fellow worse bested,\nOr more afraid to fight, than is the appellant,\nThe servant of this armourer, my lords.\n[Enter at one door, HORNER, the Armourer, and his]\nNeighbours, drinking to him so much that he is drunk;\nand he enters with a drum before him and his staff\nwith a sand-bag fastened to it; and at the other\ndoor PETER, his man, with a drum and sand-bag, and\n'Prentices drinking to him]


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Here, neighbour Horner, I drink to you in a cup of\nsack: and fear not, neighbour, you shall do well enough.


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Let it come, i' faith, and I'll pledge you all; and\na fig for Peter!\nfor credit of the 'prentices.


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I thank you all: drink, and pray for me, I pray\nyou; for I think I have taken my last draught in\nthis world. Here, Robin, an if I die, I give thee\nmy apron: and, Will, thou shalt have my hammer:\nand here, Tom, take all the money that I have. O\nLord bless me! I pray God! for I am never able to\ndeal with my master, he hath learnt me so much fence already.


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Masters, I am come hither, as it were, upon my man's\ninstigation, to prove him a knave and myself an\nhonest man: and touching the Duke of York, I will\ntake my death, I never meant him any ill, nor the\nking, nor the queen: and therefore, Peter, have at\nthee with a downright blow!


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Go, take hence that traitor from our sight;\nFor his death we do perceive his guilt:\nAnd God in justice hath revealed to us\nThe truth and innocence of this poor fellow,\nWhich he had thought to have murder'd wrongfully.\nCome, fellow, follow us for thy reward.


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Thus sometimes hath the brightest day a cloud;\nAnd after summer evermore succeeds\nBarren winter, with his wrathful nipping cold:\nSo cares and joys abound, as seasons fleet.\nSirs, what's o'clock?


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Ten is the hour that was appointed me\nTo watch the coming of my punish'd duchess:\nUneath may she endure the flinty streets,\nTo tread them with her tender-feeling feet.\nSweet Nell, ill can thy noble mind abrook\nThe abject people gazing on thy face,\nWith envious looks, laughing at thy shame,\nThat erst did follow thy proud chariot-wheels\nWhen thou didst ride in triumph through the streets.\nBut, soft! I think she comes; and I'll prepare\nMy tear-stain'd eyes to see her miseries.\n[Enter the DUCHESS in a white sheet, and a taper]\nburning in her hand; with STANLEY, the Sheriff,\nand Officers]


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Come you, my lord, to see my open shame?\nNow thou dost penance too. Look how they gaze!\nSee how the giddy multitude do point,\nAnd nod their heads, and throw their eyes on thee!\nAh, Gloucester, hide thee from their hateful looks,\nAnd, in thy closet pent up, rue my shame,\nAnd ban thine enemies, both mine and thine!


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Ah, Gloucester, teach me to forget myself!\nFor whilst I think I am thy married wife\nAnd thou a prince, protector of this land,\nMethinks I should not thus be led along,\nMail'd up in shame, with papers on my back,\nAnd followed with a rabble that rejoice\nTo see my tears and hear my deep-fet groans.\nThe ruthless flint doth cut my tender feet,\nAnd when I start, the envious people laugh\nAnd bid me be advised how I tread.\nAh, Humphrey, can I bear this shameful yoke?\nTrow'st thou that e'er I'll look upon the world,\nOr count them happy that enjoy the sun?\nNo; dark shall be my light and night my day;\nTo think upon my pomp shall be my hell.\nSometime I'll say, I am Duke Humphrey's wife,\nAnd he a prince and ruler of the land:\nYet so he ruled and such a prince he was\nAs he stood by whilst I, his forlorn duchess,\nWas made a wonder and a pointing-stock\nTo every idle rascal follower.\nBut be thou mild and blush not at my shame,\nNor stir at nothing till the axe of death\nHang over thee, as, sure, it shortly will;\nFor Suffolk, he that can do all in all\nWith her that hateth thee and hates us all,\nAnd York and impious Beaufort, that false priest,\nHave all limed bushes to betray thy wings,\nAnd, fly thou how thou canst, they'll tangle thee:\nBut fear not thou, until thy foot be snared,\nNor never seek prevention of thy foes.


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Ah, Nell, forbear! thou aimest all awry;\nI must offend before I be attainted;\nAnd had I twenty times so many foes,\nAnd each of them had twenty times their power,\nAll these could not procure me any scathe,\nSo long as I am loyal, true and crimeless.\nWouldst have me rescue thee from this reproach?\nWhy, yet thy scandal were not wiped away\nBut I in danger for the breach of law.\nThy greatest help is quiet, gentle Nell:\nI pray thee, sort thy heart to patience;\nThese few days' wonder will be quickly worn.


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And my consent ne'er ask'd herein before!\nThis is close dealing. Well, I will be there.\n[Exit Herald]\nMy Nell, I take my leave: and, master sheriff,\nLet not her penance exceed the king's commission.


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An't please your grace, here my commission stays,\nAnd Sir John Stanley is appointed now\nTo take her with him to the Isle of Man.


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Entreat her not the worse in that I pray\nYou use her well: the world may laugh again;\nAnd I may live to do you kindness if\nYou do it her: and so, Sir John, farewell!


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Art thou gone too? all comfort go with thee!\nFor none abides with me: my joy is death;\nDeath, at whose name I oft have been afear'd,\nBecause I wish'd this world's eternity.\nStanley, I prithee, go, and take me hence;\nI care not whither, for I beg no favour,\nOnly convey me where thou art commanded.


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My shame will not be shifted with my sheet:\nNo, it will hang upon my richest robes\nAnd show itself, attire me how I can.\nGo, lead the way; I long to see my prison.


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[Exeunt]\n[Sound a sennet. Enter KING HENRY VI, QUEEN]\nMARGARET, CARDINAL, SUFFOLK, YORK, BUCKINGHAM,\nSALISBURY and WARWICK to the Parliament]


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I muse my Lord of Gloucester is not come:\n'Tis not his wont to be the hindmost man,\nWhate'er occasion keeps him from us now.


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Can you not see? or will ye not observe\nThe strangeness of his alter'd countenance?\nWith what a majesty he bears himself,\nHow insolent of late he is become,\nHow proud, how peremptory, and unlike himself?\nWe know the time since he was mild and affable,\nAnd if we did but glance a far-off look,\nImmediately he was upon his knee,\nThat all the court admired him for submission:\nBut meet him now, and, be it in the morn,\nWhen every one will give the time of day,\nHe knits his brow and shows an angry eye,\nAnd passeth by with stiff unbowed knee,\nDisdaining duty that to us belongs.\nSmall curs are not regarded when they grin;\nBut great men tremble when the lion roars;\nAnd Humphrey is no little man in England.\nFirst note that he is near you in descent,\nAnd should you fall, he as the next will mount.\nMe seemeth then it is no policy,\nRespecting what a rancorous mind he bears\nAnd his advantage following your decease,\nThat he should come about your royal person\nOr be admitted to your highness' council.\nBy flattery hath he won 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'll o'ergrow the garden\nAnd choke the herbs for want of husbandry.\nThe reverent care I bear unto my lord\nMade me collect these dangers in the duke.\nIf it be fond, call it a woman's fear;\nWhich fear if better reasons can supplant,\nI will subscribe and say I wrong'd the duke.\nMy Lord of Suffolk, Buckingham, and York,\nReprove my allegation, if you can;\nOr else conclude my words effectual.


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Well hath your highness seen into this duke;\nAnd, had I first been put to speak my mind,\nI think I should have told your grace's tale.\nThe duchess, by his subornation,\nUpon my life, began her devilish practises:\nOr, if he were not privy to those faults,\nYet, by reputing of his high descent,\nAs next the king he was successive heir,\nAnd such high vaunts of his nobility,\nDid instigate the bedlam brain-sick duchess\nBy wicked means to frame our sovereign's fall.\nSmooth runs the water where the brook is deep;\nAnd in his simple show he harbours treason.\nThe fox barks not when he would steal the lamb.\nNo, no, my sovereign; Gloucester is a man\nUnsounded yet and full of deep deceit.


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And did he not, in his protectorship,\nLevy great sums of money through the realm\nFor soldiers' pay in France, and never sent it?\nBy means whereof the towns each day revolted.


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Tut, these are petty faults to faults unknown.\nWhich time will bring to light in smooth\nDuke Humphrey.


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My lords, at once: the care you have of us,\nTo mow down thorns that would annoy our foot,\nIs worthy praise: but, shall I speak my conscience,\nOur kinsman Gloucester is as innocent\nFrom meaning treason to our royal person\nAs is the sucking lamb or harmless dove:\nThe duke is virtuous, mild and too well given\nTo dream on evil or to work my downfall.


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Ah, what's more dangerous than this fond affiance!\nSeems he a dove? his feathers are but borrowed,\nFor he's disposed as the hateful raven:\nIs he a lamb? his skin is surely lent him,\nFor he's inclined as is the ravenous wolf.\nWho cannot steal a shape that means deceit?\nTake heed, my lord; the welfare of us all\nHangs on the cutting short that fraudful man.


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[Aside] Cold news for me; for I had hope of France\nAs firmly as I hope for fertile England.\nThus are my blossoms blasted in the bud\nAnd caterpillars eat my leaves away;\nBut I will remedy this gear ere long,\nOr sell my title for a glorious grave.


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Nay, Gloucester, know that thou art come too soon,\nUnless thou wert more loyal than thou art:\nI do arrest thee of high treason here.


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Well, Suffolk, thou shalt not see me blush\nNor change my countenance for this arrest:\nA heart unspotted is not easily daunted.\nThe purest spring is not so free from mud\nAs I am clear from treason to my sovereign:\nWho can accuse me? wherein am I guilty?


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'Tis thought, my lord, that you took bribes of France,\nAnd, being protector, stayed the soldiers' pay;\nBy means whereof his highness hath lost France.


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Is it but thought so? what are they that think it?\nI never robb'd the soldiers of their pay,\nNor ever had one penny bribe from France.\nSo help me God, as I have watch'd the night,\nAy, night by night, in studying good for England,\nThat doit that e'er I wrested from the king,\nOr any groat I hoarded to my use,\nBe brought against me at my trial-day!\nNo; many a pound of mine own proper store,\nBecause I would not tax the needy commons,\nHave I disbursed to the garrisons,\nAnd never ask'd for restitution.


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In your protectorship you did devise\nStrange tortures for offenders never heard of,\nThat England was defamed by tyranny.


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Why, 'tis well known that, whiles I was\nprotector,\nPity was all the fault that was in me;\nFor I should melt at an offender's tears,\nAnd lowly words were ransom for their fault.\nUnless it were a bloody murderer,\nOr foul felonious thief that fleeced poor passengers,\nI never gave them condign punishment:\nMurder indeed, that bloody sin, I tortured\nAbove the felon or what trespass else.


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My lord, these faults are easy, quickly answered:\nBut mightier crimes are laid unto your charge,\nWhereof you cannot easily purge yourself.\nI do arrest you in his highness' name;\nAnd here commit you to my lord cardinal\nTo keep, until your further time of trial.


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My lord of Gloucester, 'tis my special hope\nThat you will clear yourself from all suspect:\nMy conscience tells me you are innocent.


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Ah, gracious lord, these days are dangerous:\nVirtue is choked with foul ambition\nAnd charity chased hence by rancour's hand;\nFoul subornation is predominant\nAnd equity exiled your highness' land.\nI know their complot is to have my life,\nAnd if my death might make this island happy,\nAnd prove the period of their tyranny,\nI would expend it with all willingness:\nBut mine is made the prologue to their play;\nFor thousands more, that yet suspect no peril,\nWill not conclude their plotted tragedy.\nBeaufort's red sparkling eyes blab his heart's malice,\nAnd Suffolk's cloudy brow his stormy hate;\nSharp Buckingham unburthens with his tongue\nThe envious load that lies upon his heart;\nAnd dogged York, that reaches at the moon,\nWhose overweening arm I have pluck'd back,\nBy false accuse doth level at my life:\nAnd you, my sovereign lady, with the rest,\nCauseless have laid disgraces on my head,\nAnd with your best endeavour have stirr'd up\nMy liefest liege to be mine enemy:\nAy, all you have laid your heads together--\nMyself had notice of your conventicles--\nAnd all to make away my guiltless life.\nI shall not want false witness to condemn me,\nNor store of treasons to augment my guilt;\nThe ancient proverb will be well effected:\n'A staff is quickly found to beat a dog.'


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My liege, his railing is intolerable:\nIf those that care to keep your royal person\nFrom treason's secret knife and traitors' rage\nBe thus upbraided, chid and rated at,\nAnd the offender granted scope of speech,\n'Twill make them cool in zeal unto your grace.


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Hath he not twit our sovereign lady here\nWith ignominious words, though clerkly couch'd,\nAs if she had suborned some to swear\nFalse allegations to o'erthrow his state?


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Far truer spoke than meant: I lose, indeed;\nBeshrew the winners, for they play'd me false!\nAnd well such losers may have leave to speak.


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Ah! thus King Henry throws away his crutch\nBefore his legs be firm to bear his body.\nThus is the shepherd beaten from thy side,\nAnd wolves are gnarling who shall gnaw thee first.\nAh, that my fear were false! ah, that it were!\nFor, good King Henry, thy decay I fear.


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Ay, Margaret; my heart is drown'd with grief,\nWhose flood begins to flow within mine eyes,\nMy body round engirt with misery,\nFor what's more miserable than discontent?\nAh, uncle Humphrey! in thy face I see\nThe map of honour, truth and loyalty:\nAnd yet, good Humphrey, is the hour to come\nThat e'er I proved thee false or fear'd thy faith.\nWhat louring star now envies thy estate,\nThat these great lords and Margaret our queen\nDo seek subversion of thy harmless life?\nThou never didst them wrong, nor no man wrong;\nAnd as the butcher takes away the calf\nAnd binds the wretch, and beats it when it strays,\nBearing it to the bloody slaughter-house,\nEven so remorseless have they borne him hence;\nAnd as the dam runs lowing up and down,\nLooking the way her harmless young one went,\nAnd can do nought but wail her darling's loss,\nEven so myself bewails good Gloucester's case\nWith sad unhelpful tears, and with dimm'd eyes\nLook after him and cannot do him good,\nSo mighty are his vowed enemies.\nHis fortunes I will weep; and, 'twixt each groan\nSay 'Who's a traitor? Gloucester he is none.'\n[Exeunt all but QUEEN MARGARET, CARDINAL,]\nSUFFOLK, and YORK; SOMERSET remains apart]


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Free lords, cold snow melts with the sun's hot beams.\nHenry my lord is cold in great affairs,\nToo full of foolish pity, and Gloucester's show\nBeguiles him as the mournful crocodile\nWith sorrow snares relenting passengers,\nOr as the snake roll'd in a flowering bank,\nWith shining chequer'd slough, doth sting a child\nThat for the beauty thinks it excellent.\nBelieve me, lords, were none more wise than I--\nAnd yet herein I judge mine own wit good--\nThis Gloucester should be quickly rid the world,\nTo rid us of the fear we have of him.


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That he should die is worthy policy;\nBut yet we want a colour for his death:\n'Tis meet he be condemn'd by course of law.


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But, in my mind, that were no policy:\nThe king will labour still to save his life,\nThe commons haply rise, to save his life;\nAnd yet we have but trivial argument,\nMore than mistrust, that shows him worthy death.


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'Tis York that hath more reason for his death.\nBut, my lord cardinal, and you, my Lord of Suffolk,\nSay as you think, and speak it from your souls,\nWere't not all one, an empty eagle were set\nTo guard the chicken from a hungry kite,\nAs place Duke Humphrey for the king's protector?


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Madam, 'tis true; and were't not madness, then,\nTo make the fox surveyor of the fold?\nWho being accused a crafty murderer,\nHis guilt should be but idly posted over,\nBecause his purpose is not executed.\nNo; let him die, in that he is a fox,\nBy nature proved an enemy to the flock,\nBefore his chaps be stain'd with crimson blood,\nAs Humphrey, proved by reasons, to my liege.\nAnd do not stand on quillets how to slay him:\nBe it by gins, by snares, by subtlety,\nSleeping or waking, 'tis no matter how,\nSo he be dead; for that is good deceit\nWhich mates him first that first intends deceit.


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Not resolute, except so much were done;\nFor things are often spoke and seldom meant:\nBut that my heart accordeth with my tongue,\nSeeing the deed is meritorious,\nAnd to preserve my sovereign from his foe,\nSay but the word, and I will be his priest.


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But I would have him dead, my Lord of Suffolk,\nEre you can take due orders for a priest:\nSay you consent and censure well the deed,\nAnd I'll provide his executioner,\nI tender so the safety of my liege.


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Great lords, from Ireland am I come amain,\nTo signify that rebels there are up\nAnd put the Englishmen unto the sword:\nSend succors, lords, and stop the rage betime,\nBefore the wound do grow uncurable;\nFor, being green, there is great hope of help.


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That Somerset be sent as regent thither:\n'Tis meet that lucky ruler be employ'd;\nWitness the fortune he hath had in France.


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If York, with all his far-fet policy,\nHad been the regent there instead of me,\nHe never would have stay'd in France so long.


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No, not to lose it all, as thou hast done:\nI rather would have lost my life betimes\nThan bring a burthen of dishonour home\nBy staying there so long till all were lost.\nShow me one scar character'd on thy skin:\nMen's flesh preserved so whole do seldom win.


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Nay, then, this spark will prove a raging fire,\nIf wind and fuel be brought to feed it with:\nNo more, good York; sweet Somerset, be still:\nThy fortune, York, hadst thou been regent there,\nMight happily have proved far worse than his.


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My Lord of York, try what your fortune is.\nThe uncivil kerns of Ireland are in arms\nAnd temper clay with blood of Englishmen:\nTo Ireland will you lead a band of men,\nCollected choicely, from each county some,\nAnd try your hap against the Irishmen?


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Why, our authority is his consent,\nAnd what we do establish he confirms:\nThen, noble York, take thou this task in hand.


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No more of him; for I will deal with him\nThat henceforth he shall trouble us no more.\nAnd so break off; the day is almost spent:\nLord Suffolk, you and I must talk of that event.


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My Lord of Suffolk, within fourteen days\nAt Bristol I expect my soldiers;\nFor there I'll ship them all for Ireland.


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Now, York, or never, steel thy fearful thoughts,\nAnd change misdoubt to resolution:\nBe that thou hopest to be, or what thou art\nResign to death; it is not worth the enjoying:\nLet pale-faced fear keep with the mean-born man,\nAnd find no harbour in a royal heart.\nFaster than spring-time showers comes thought\non thought,\nAnd not a thought but thinks on dignity.\nMy brain more busy than the labouring spider\nWeaves tedious snares to trap mine enemies.\nWell, nobles, well, 'tis politicly done,\nTo send me packing with an host of men:\nI fear me you but warm the starved snake,\nWho, cherish'd in your breasts, will sting\nyour hearts.\n'Twas men I lack'd and you will give them me:\nI take it kindly; and yet be well assured\nYou put sharp weapons in a madman's hands.\nWhiles I in Ireland nourish a mighty band,\nI will stir up in England some black storm\nShall blow ten thousand souls to heaven or hell;\nAnd this fell tempest shall not cease to rage\nUntil the golden circuit on my head,\nLike to the glorious sun's transparent beams,\nDo calm the fury of this mad-bred flaw.\nAnd, for a minister of my intent,\nI have seduced a headstrong Kentishman,\nJohn Cade of Ashford,\nTo make commotion, as full well he can,\nUnder the title of John Mortimer.\nIn Ireland have I seen this stubborn Cade\nOppose himself against a troop of kerns,\nAnd fought so long, till that his thighs with darts\nWere almost like a sharp-quill'd porpentine;\nAnd, in the end being rescued, I have seen\nHim caper upright like a wild Morisco,\nShaking the bloody darts as he his bells.\nFull often, like a shag-hair'd crafty kern,\nHath he conversed with the enemy,\nAnd undiscover'd come to me again\nAnd given me notice of their villanies.\nThis devil here shall be my substitute;\nFor that John Mortimer, which now is dead,\nIn face, in gait, in speech, he doth resemble:\nBy this I shall perceive the commons' mind,\nHow they affect the house and claim of York.\nSay he be taken, rack'd and tortured,\nI know no pain they can inflict upon him\nWill make him say I moved him to those arms.\nSay that he thrive, as 'tis great like he will,\nWhy, then from Ireland come I with my strength\nAnd reap the harvest which that rascal sow'd;\nFor Humphrey being dead, as he shall be,\nAnd Henry put apart, the next for me.


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Why, that's well said. Go, get you to my house;\nI will reward you for this venturous deed.\nThe king and all the peers are here at hand.\nHave you laid fair the bed? Is all things well,\nAccording as I gave directions?


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Away! be gone.\n[Exeunt Murderers]\n[Sound trumpets. Enter KING HENRY VI, QUEEN]\nMARGARET, CARDINAL, SOMERSET, with Attendants]


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Go, call our uncle to our presence straight;\nSay we intend to try his grace to-day.\nIf he be guilty, as 'tis published.


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Lords, take your places; and, I pray you all,\nProceed no straiter 'gainst our uncle Gloucester\nThan from true evidence of good esteem\nHe be approved in practise culpable.


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God forbid any malice should prevail,\nThat faultless may condemn a nobleman!\nPray God he may acquit him of suspicion!


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I thank thee, Meg; these words content me much.\n[Re-enter SUFFOLK]\nHow now! why look'st thou pale? why tremblest thou?\nWhere is our uncle? what's the matter, Suffolk?


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What, doth my Lord of Suffolk comfort me?\nCame he right now to sing a raven's note,\nWhose dismal tune bereft my vital powers;\nAnd thinks he that the chirping of a wren,\nBy crying comfort from a hollow breast,\nCan chase away the first-conceived sound?\nHide not thy poison with such sugar'd words;\nLay not thy hands on me; forbear, I say;\nTheir touch affrights me as a serpent's sting.\nThou baleful messenger, out of my sight!\nUpon thy eye-balls murderous tyranny\nSits in grim majesty, to fright the world.\nLook not upon me, for thine eyes are wounding:\nYet do not go away: come, basilisk,\nAnd kill the innocent gazer with thy sight;\nFor in the shade of death I shall find joy;\nIn life but double death, now Gloucester's dead.


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Why do you rate my Lord of Suffolk thus?\nAlthough the duke was enemy to him,\nYet he most Christian-like laments his death:\nAnd for myself, foe as he was to me,\nMight liquid tears or heart-offending groans\nOr blood-consuming sighs recall his life,\nI would be blind with weeping, sick with groans,\nLook pale as primrose with blood-drinking sighs,\nAnd all to have the noble duke alive.\nWhat know I how the world may deem of me?\nFor it is known we were but hollow friends:\nIt may be judged I made the duke away;\nSo shall my name with slander's tongue be wounded,\nAnd princes' courts be fill'd with my reproach.\nThis get I by his death: ay me, unhappy!\nTo be a queen, and crown'd with infamy!


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Be woe for me, more wretched than he is.\nWhat, dost thou turn away and hide thy face?\nI am no loathsome leper; look on me.\nWhat! art thou, like the adder, waxen deaf?\nBe poisonous too and kill thy forlorn queen.\nIs all thy comfort shut in Gloucester's tomb?\nWhy, then, dame Margaret was ne'er thy joy.\nErect his statue and worship it,\nAnd make my image but an alehouse sign.\nWas I for this nigh wreck'd upon the sea\nAnd twice by awkward wind from England's bank\nDrove back again unto my native clime?\nWhat boded this, but well forewarning wind\nDid seem to say 'Seek not a scorpion's nest,\nNor set no footing on this unkind shore'?\nWhat did I then, but cursed the gentle gusts\nAnd he that loosed them forth their brazen caves:\nAnd bid them blow towards England's blessed shore,\nOr turn our stern upon a dreadful rock\nYet AEolus would not be a murderer,\nBut left that hateful office unto thee:\nThe pretty-vaulting sea refused to drown me,\nKnowing that thou wouldst have me drown'd on shore,\nWith tears as salt as sea, through thy unkindness:\nThe splitting rocks cower'd in the sinking sands\nAnd would not dash me with their ragged sides,\nBecause thy flinty heart, more hard than they,\nMight in thy palace perish Margaret.\nAs far as I could ken thy chalky cliffs,\nWhen from thy shore the tempest beat us back,\nI stood upon the hatches in the storm,\nAnd when the dusky sky began to rob\nMy earnest-gaping sight of thy land's view,\nI took a costly jewel from my neck,\nA heart it was, bound in with diamonds,\nAnd threw it towards thy land: the sea received it,\nAnd so I wish'd thy body might my heart:\nAnd even with this I lost fair England's view\nAnd bid mine eyes be packing with my heart\nAnd call'd them blind and dusky spectacles,\nFor losing ken of Albion's wished coast.\nHow often have I tempted Suffolk's tongue,\nThe agent of thy foul inconstancy,\nTo sit and witch me, as Ascanius did\nWhen he to madding Dido would unfold\nHis father's acts commenced in burning Troy!\nAm I not witch'd like her? or thou not false like him?\nAy me, I can no more! die, Margaret!\nFor Henry weeps that thou dost live so long.


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It is reported, mighty sovereign,\nThat good Duke Humphrey traitorously is murder'd\nBy Suffolk and the Cardinal Beaufort's means.\nThe commons, like an angry hive of bees\nThat want their leader, scatter up and down\nAnd care not who they sting in his revenge.\nMyself have calm'd their spleenful mutiny,\nUntil they hear the order of his death.


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That he is dead, good Warwick, 'tis too true;\nBut how he died God knows, not Henry:\nEnter his chamber, view his breathless corpse,\nAnd comment then upon his sudden death.


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O Thou that judgest all things, stay my thoughts,\nMy thoughts, that labour to persuade my soul\nSome violent hands were laid on Humphrey's life!\nIf my suspect be false, forgive me, God,\nFor judgment only doth belong to thee.\nFain would I go to chafe his paly lips\nWith twenty thousand kisses, and to drain\nUpon his face an ocean of salt tears,\nTo tell my love unto his dumb deaf trunk,\nAnd with my fingers feel his hand unfeeling:\nBut all in vain are these mean obsequies;\nAnd to survey his dead and earthly image,\nWhat were it but to make my sorrow greater?\n[Re-enter WARWICK and others, bearing]\nGLOUCESTER'S body on a bed]


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That is to see how deep my grave is made;\nFor with his soul fled all my worldly solace,\nFor seeing him I see my life in death.


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As surely as my soul intends to live\nWith that dread King that took our state upon him\nTo free us from his father's wrathful curse,\nI do believe that violent hands were laid\nUpon the life of this thrice-famed duke.


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See how the blood is settled in his face.\nOft have I seen a timely-parted ghost,\nOf ashy semblance, meagre, pale and bloodless,\nBeing all descended to the labouring heart;\nWho, in the conflict that it holds with death,\nAttracts the same for aidance 'gainst the enemy;\nWhich with the heart there cools and ne'er returneth\nTo blush and beautify the cheek again.\nBut see, his face is black and full of blood,\nHis eye-balls further out than when he lived,\nStaring full ghastly like a strangled man;\nHis hair uprear'd, his nostrils stretched with struggling;\nHis hands abroad display'd, as one that grasp'd\nAnd tugg'd for life and was by strength subdued:\nLook, on the sheets his hair you see, is sticking;\nHis well-proportion'd beard made rough and rugged,\nLike to the summer's corn by tempest lodged.\nIt cannot be but he was murder'd here;\nThe least of all these signs were probable.


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Why, Warwick, who should do the duke to death?\nMyself and Beaufort had him in protection;\nAnd we, I hope, sir, are no murderers.


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But both of you were vow'd Duke Humphrey's foes,\nAnd you, forsooth, had the good duke to keep:\n'Tis like you would not feast him like a friend;\nAnd 'tis well seen he found an enemy.


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Who finds the heifer 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 puttock's nest,\nBut may imagine how the bird was dead,\nAlthough the kite soar with unbloodied beak?\nEven so suspicious is this tragedy.


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I wear no knife to slaughter sleeping men;\nBut here's a vengeful sword, rusted with ease,\nThat shall be scoured in his rancorous heart\nThat slanders me with murder's crimson badge.\nSay, if thou darest, proud Lord of Warwick-shire,\nThat I am faulty in Duke Humphrey's death.


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He dares not calm his contumelious spirit\nNor cease to be an arrogant controller,\nThough Suffolk dare him twenty thousand times.


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Madam, be still; with reverence may I say;\nFor every word you speak in his behalf\nIs slander to your royal dignity.


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Blunt-witted lord, ignoble in demeanor!\nIf ever lady wrong'd her lord so much,\nThy mother took into her blameful bed\nSome stern untutor'd churl, and noble stock\nWas graft with crab-tree slip; whose fruit thou art,\nAnd never of the Nevils' noble race.


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But that the guilt of murder bucklers thee\nAnd I should rob the deathsman of his fee,\nQuitting thee thereby of ten thousand shames,\nAnd that my sovereign's presence makes me mild,\nI would, false murderous coward, on thy knee\nMake thee beg pardon for thy passed speech,\nAnd say it was thy mother that thou meant'st\nThat thou thyself was born in bastardy;\nAnd after all this fearful homage done,\nGive thee thy hire and send thy soul to hell,\nPernicious blood-sucker of sleeping men!


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Away even now, or I will drag thee hence:\nUnworthy though thou art, I'll cope with thee\nAnd do some service to Duke Humphrey's ghost.


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What stronger breastplate than a heart untainted!\nThrice is he armed that hath his quarrel just,\nAnd he but naked, though lock'd up in steel\nWhose conscience with injustice is corrupted.


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Why, how now, lords! your wrathful weapons drawn\nHere in our presence! dare you be so bold?\nWhy, what tumultuous clamour have we here?


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[To the Commons, entering] Sirs, stand apart;\nthe king shall know your mind.\nDread lord, the commons send you word by me,\nUnless Lord Suffolk straight be done to death,\nOr banished fair England's territories,\nThey will by violence tear him from your palace\nAnd torture him with grievous lingering death.\nThey say, by him the good Duke Humphrey died;\nThey say, in him they fear your highness' death;\nAnd mere instinct of love and loyalty,\nFree from a stubborn opposite intent,\nAs being thought to contradict your liking,\nMakes them thus forward in his banishment.\nThey say, in care of your most royal person,\nThat if your highness should intend to sleep\nAnd charge that no man should disturb your rest\nIn pain of your dislike or pain of death,\nYet, notwithstanding such a strait edict,\nWere there a serpent seen, with forked tongue,\nThat slily glided towards your majesty,\nIt were but necessary you were waked,\nLest, being suffer'd in that harmful slumber,\nThe mortal worm might make the sleep eternal;\nAnd therefore do they cry, though you forbid,\nThat they will guard you, whether you will or no,\nFrom such fell serpents as false Suffolk is,\nWith whose envenomed and fatal sting,\nYour loving uncle, twenty times his worth,\nThey say, is shamefully bereft of life.


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'Tis like the commons, rude unpolish'd hinds,\nCould send such message to their sovereign:\nBut you, my lord, were glad to be employ'd,\nTo show how quaint an orator you are:\nBut all the honour Salisbury hath won\nIs, that he was the lord ambassador\nSent from a sort of tinkers to the king.


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Go, Salisbury, and tell them all from me.\nI thank them for their tender loving care;\nAnd had I not been cited so by them,\nYet did I purpose as they do entreat;\nFor, sure, my thoughts do hourly prophesy\nMischance unto my state by Suffolk's means:\nAnd therefore, by His majesty I swear,\nWhose far unworthy deputy I am,\nHe shall not breathe infection in this air\nBut three days longer, on the pain of death.


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Ungentle queen, to call him gentle Suffolk!\nNo more, I say: if thou dost plead for him,\nThou wilt but add increase unto my wrath.\nHad I but said, I would have kept my word,\nBut when I swear, it is irrevocable.\nIf, after three days' space, thou here be'st found\nOn any ground that I am ruler of,\nThe world shall not be ransom for thy life.\nCome, Warwick, come, good Warwick, go with me;\nI have great matters to impart to thee.


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Mischance and sorrow go along with you!\nHeart's discontent and sour affliction\nBe playfellows to keep you company!\nThere's two of you; the devil make a third!\nAnd threefold vengeance tend upon your steps!


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A plague upon them! wherefore should I curse them?\nWould curses kill, as doth the mandrake's groan,\nI would invent as bitter-searching terms,\nAs curst, as harsh and horrible to hear,\nDeliver'd strongly through my fixed teeth,\nWith full as many signs of deadly hate,\nAs lean-faced Envy in her loathsome cave:\nMy tongue should stumble in mine earnest words;\nMine eyes should sparkle like the beaten flint;\nMine hair be fixed on end, as one distract;\nAy, every joint should seem to curse and ban:\nAnd even now my burthen'd heart would break,\nShould I not curse them. Poison be their drink!\nGall, worse than gall, the daintiest that they taste!\nTheir sweetest shade a grove of cypress trees!\nTheir chiefest prospect murdering basilisks!\nTheir softest touch as smart as lizards' sting!\nTheir music frightful as the serpent's hiss,\nAnd boding screech-owls make the concert full!\nAll the foul terrors in dark-seated hell--


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Enough, sweet Suffolk; thou torment'st thyself;\nAnd these dread curses, like the sun 'gainst glass,\nOr like an overcharged gun, recoil,\nAnd turn the force of them upon thyself.


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You bade me ban, and will you bid me leave?\nNow, by the ground that I am banish'd from,\nWell could I curse away a winter's night,\nThough standing naked on a mountain top,\nWhere biting cold would never let grass grow,\nAnd think it but a minute spent in sport.


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O, let me entreat thee cease. Give me thy hand,\nThat I may dew it with my mournful tears;\nNor let the rain of heaven wet this place,\nTo wash away my woful monuments.\nO, could this kiss be printed in thy hand,\nThat thou mightst think upon these by the seal,\nThrough whom a thousand sighs are breathed for thee!\nSo, get thee gone, that I may know my grief;\n'Tis but surmised whiles thou art standing by,\nAs one that surfeits thinking on a want.\nI will repeal thee, or, be well assured,\nAdventure to be banished myself:\nAnd banished I am, if but from thee.\nGo; speak not to me; even now be gone.\nO, go not yet! Even thus two friends condemn'd\nEmbrace and kiss and take ten thousand leaves,\nLoather a hundred times to part than die.\nYet now farewell; and farewell life with thee!


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Thus is poor Suffolk ten times banished;\nOnce by the king, and three times thrice by thee.\n'Tis not the land I care for, wert thou thence;\nA wilderness is populous enough,\nSo Suffolk had thy heavenly company:\nFor where thou art, there is the world itself,\nWith every several pleasure in the world,\nAnd where thou art not, desolation.\nI can no more: live thou to joy thy life;\nMyself no joy in nought but that thou livest.


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To signify unto his majesty\nThat Cardinal Beaufort is at point of death;\nFor suddenly a grievous sickness took him,\nThat makes him gasp and stare and catch the air,\nBlaspheming God and cursing men on earth.\nSometimes he talks as if Duke Humphrey's ghost\nWere by his side; sometime he calls the king,\nAnd whispers to his pillow, as to him,\nThe secrets of his overcharged soul;\nAnd I am sent to tell his majesty\nThat even now he cries aloud for him.


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Go tell this heavy message to the king.\n[Exit VAUX]\nAy me! what is this world! what news are these!\nBut wherefore grieve I at an hour's poor loss,\nOmitting Suffolk's exile, my soul's treasure?\nWhy only, Suffolk, mourn I not for thee,\nAnd with the southern clouds contend in tears,\nTheirs for the earth's increase, mine for my sorrows?\nNow get thee hence: the king, thou know'st, is coming;\nIf thou be found by me, thou art but dead.


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If I depart from thee, I cannot live;\nAnd in thy sight to die, what were it else\nBut like a pleasant slumber in thy lap?\nHere could I breathe my soul into the air,\nAs mild and gentle as the cradle-babe\nDying with mother's dug between its lips:\nWhere, from thy sight, I should be raging mad,\nAnd cry out for thee to close up mine eyes,\nTo have thee with thy lips to stop my mouth;\nSo shouldst thou either turn my flying soul,\nOr I should breathe it so into thy body,\nAnd then it lived in sweet Elysium.\nTo die by thee were but to die in jest;\nFrom thee to die were torture more than death:\nO, let me stay, befall what may befall!


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Away! though parting be a fretful corrosive,\nIt is applied to a deathful wound.\nTo France, sweet Suffolk: let me hear from thee;\nFor wheresoe'er thou art in this world's globe,\nI'll have an Iris that shall find thee out.


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A jewel, lock'd into the wofull'st cask\nThat ever did contain a thing of worth.\nEven as a splitted bark, so sunder we\nThis way fall I to death.


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If thou be'st death, I'll give thee England's treasure,\nEnough to purchase such another island,\nSo thou wilt let me live, and feel no pain.


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Bring me unto my trial when you will.\nDied he not in his bed? where should he die?\nCan I make men live, whether they will or no?\nO, torture me no more! I will confess.\nAlive again? then show me where he is:\nI'll give a thousand pound to look upon him.\nHe hath no eyes, the dust hath blinded them.\nComb down his hair; look, look! it stands upright,\nLike lime-twigs set to catch my winged soul.\nGive me some drink; and bid the apothecary\nBring the strong poison that I bought of him.


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O thou eternal Mover of the heavens.\nLook with a gentle eye upon this wretch!\nO, beat away the busy meddling fiend\nThat lays strong siege unto this wretch's soul.\nAnd from his bosom purge this black despair!


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Peace to his soul, if God's good pleasure be!\nLord cardinal, if thou think'st on heaven's bliss,\nHold up thy hand, make signal of thy hope.\nHe dies, and makes no sign. O God, forgive him!


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Forbear to judge, for we are sinners all.\nClose up his eyes and draw the curtain close;\nAnd let us all to meditation.


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[Exeunt]\n[Alarum. Fight at sea. Ordnance goes off. Enter a]\nCaptain, a Master, a Master's-mate, WALTER WHITMORE,\nand others; with them SUFFOLK, and others, prisoners]


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The gaudy, blabbing and remorseful day\nIs crept into the bosom of the sea;\nAnd now loud-howling wolves arouse the jades\nThat drag the tragic melancholy night;\nWho, with their drowsy, slow and flagging wings,\nClip dead men's graves and from their misty jaws\nBreathe foul contagious darkness in the air.\nTherefore bring forth the soldiers of our prize;\nFor, whilst our pinnace anchors in the Downs,\nHere shall they make their ransom on the sand,\nOr with their blood stain this discolour'd shore.\nMaster, this prisoner freely give I thee;\nAnd thou that art his mate, make boot of this;\nThe other, Walter Whitmore, is thy share.


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What, think you much to pay two thousand crowns,\nAnd bear the name and port of gentlemen?\nCut both the villains' throats; for die you shall:\nThe lives of those which we have lost in fight\nBe counterpoised with such a petty sum!


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I lost mine eye in laying the prize aboard,\nAnd therefore to revenge it, shalt thou die;\n[To SUFFOLK]\nAnd so should these, if I might have my will.


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Thy name affrights me, in whose sound is death.\nA cunning man did calculate my birth\nAnd told me that by water I should die:\nYet let not this make thee be bloody-minded;\nThy name is Gaultier, being rightly sounded.


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Gaultier or Walter, which it is, I care not:\nNever yet did base dishonour blur our name,\nBut with our sword we wiped away the blot;\nTherefore, when merchant-like I sell revenge,\nBroke be my sword, my arms torn and defaced,\nAnd I proclaim'd a coward through the world!


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Obscure and lowly swain, King Henry's blood,\nThe honourable blood of Lancaster,\nMust not be shed by such a jaded groom.\nHast thou not kiss'd thy hand and held my stirrup?\nBare-headed plodded by my foot-cloth mule\nAnd thought thee happy when I shook my head?\nHow often hast thou waited at my cup,\nFed from my trencher, kneel'd down at the board.\nWhen I have feasted with Queen Margaret?\nRemember it and let it make thee crest-fall'n,\nAy, and allay this thy abortive pride;\nHow in our voiding lobby hast thou stood\nAnd duly waited for my coming forth?\nThis hand of mine hath writ in thy behalf,\nAnd therefore shall it charm thy riotous tongue.


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Pool! Sir Pool! lord!\nAy, kennel, puddle, sink; whose filth and dirt\nTroubles the silver spring where England drinks.\nNow will I dam up this thy yawning mouth\nFor swallowing the treasure of the realm:\nThy lips that kiss'd the queen shall sweep the ground;\nAnd thou that smiledst at good Duke Humphrey's death,\nAgainst the senseless winds shalt grin in vain,\nWho in contempt shall hiss at thee again:\nAnd wedded be thou to the hags of hell,\nFor daring to affy a mighty lord\nUnto the daughter of a worthless king,\nHaving neither subject, wealth, nor diadem.\nBy devilish policy art thou grown great,\nAnd, like ambitious Sylla, overgorged\nWith gobbets of thy mother's bleeding heart.\nBy thee Anjou and Maine were sold to France,\nThe false revolting Normans thorough thee\nDisdain to call us lord, and Picardy\nHath slain their governors, surprised our forts,\nAnd sent the ragged soldiers wounded home.\nThe princely Warwick, and the Nevils all,\nWhose dreadful swords were never drawn in vain,\nAs hating thee, are rising up in arms:\nAnd now the house of York, thrust from the crown\nBy shameful murder of a guiltless king\nAnd lofty proud encroaching tyranny,\nBurns with revenging fire; whose hopeful colours\nAdvance our half-faced sun, striving to shine,\nUnder the which is writ 'Invitis nubibus.'\nThe commons here in Kent are up in arms:\nAnd, to conclude, reproach and beggary\nIs crept into the palace of our king.\nAnd all by thee. Away! convey him hence.


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O that I were a god, to shoot forth thunder\nUpon these paltry, servile, abject drudges!\nSmall things make base men proud: this villain here,\nBeing captain of a pinnace, threatens more\nThan Bargulus the strong Illyrian pirate.\nDrones suck not eagles' blood but rob beehives:\nIt is impossible that I should die\nBy such a lowly vassal as thyself.\nThy words move rage and not remorse in me:\nI go of message from the queen to France;\nI charge thee waft me safely cross the Channel.


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Suffolk's imperial tongue is stern and rough,\nUsed to command, untaught to plead for favour.\nFar be it we should honour such as these\nWith humble suit: no, rather let my head\nStoop to the block than these knees bow to any\nSave to the God of heaven and to my king;\nAnd sooner dance upon a bloody pole\nThan stand uncover'd to the vulgar groom.\nTrue nobility is exempt from fear:\nMore can I bear than you dare execute.


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Come, soldiers, show what cruelty ye can,\nThat this my death may never be forgot!\nGreat men oft die by vile bezonians:\nA Roman sworder and banditto slave\nMurder'd sweet Tully; Brutus' bastard hand\nStabb'd Julius Caesar; savage islanders\nPompey the Great; and Suffolk dies by pirates.


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And as for these whose ransom we have set,\nIt is our pleasure one of them depart;\nTherefore come you with us and let him go.


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O barbarous and bloody spectacle!\nHis body will I bear unto the king:\nIf he revenge it not, yet will his friends;\nSo will the queen, that living held him dear.


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I tell thee, Jack Cade the clothier means to dress\nthe commonwealth, and turn it, and set a new nap upon it.


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So he had need, for 'tis threadbare. Well, I say it\nwas never merry world in England since gentlemen came up.


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True; and yet it is said, labour in thy vocation;\nwhich is as much to say as, let the magistrates be\nlabouring men; and therefore should we be\nmagistrates.


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Come, come, let's fall in with them.\n[Drum. Enter CADE, DICK the Butcher, SMITH the]\nWeaver, and a Sawyer, with infinite numbers]


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For our enemies shall fall before us, inspired with\nthe spirit of putting down kings and princes,\n--Command silence.


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[Aside] Ay, by my faith, the field is honourable;\nand there was he borne, under a hedge, for his\nfather had never a house but the cage.


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[Aside] But methinks he should stand in fear of\nfire, being burnt i' the hand for stealing of sheep.


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Be brave, then; for your captain is brave, and vows\nreformation. There shall be in England seven\nhalfpenny loaves sold for a penny: the three-hooped\npot; shall have ten hoops and I will make it felony\nto drink small beer: all the realm shall be in\ncommon; and in Cheapside shall my palfrey go to\ngrass: and when I am king, as king I will be,--


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I thank you, good people: there shall be no money;\nall shall eat and drink on my score; and I will\napparel them all in one livery, that they may agree\nlike brothers and worship me their lord.


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Nay, that I mean to do. Is not this a lamentable\nthing, that of the skin of an innocent lamb should\nbe made parchment? that parchment, being scribbled\no'er, should undo a man? Some say the bee stings:\nbut I say, 'tis the bee's wax; for I did but seal\nonce to a thing, and I was never mine own man\nsince. How now! who's there?


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I am sorry for't: the man is a proper man, of mine\nhonour; unless I find him guilty, he shall not die.\nCome hither, sirrah, I must examine thee: what is thy name?


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Let me alone. Dost thou use to write thy name? or\nhast thou a mark to thyself, like an honest\nplain-dealing man?


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Stand, villain, stand, or I'll fell thee down. He\nshall be encountered with a man as good as himself:\nhe is but a knight, is a'?


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To equal him, I will make myself a knight presently.\n[Kneels]\nRise up Sir John Mortimer.\n[Rises]\nNow have at him!\n[Enter SIR HUMPHREY and WILLIAM STAFFORD, with]\ndrum and soldiers]


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Rebellious hinds, the filth and scum of Kent,\nMark'd for the gallows, lay your weapons down;\nHome to your cottages, forsake this groom:\nThe king is merciful, if you revolt.


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As for these silken-coated slaves, I pass not:\nIt is to you, good people, that I speak,\nOver whom, in time to come, I hope to reign;\nFor I am rightful heir unto the crown.


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Ay, there's the question; but I say, 'tis true:\nThe elder of them, being put to nurse,\nWas by a beggar-woman stolen away;\nAnd, ignorant of his birth and parentage,\nBecame a bricklayer when he came to age:\nHis son am I; deny it, if you can.


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Sir, he made a chimney in my father's house, and\nthe bricks are alive at this day to testify it;\ntherefore deny it not.


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[Aside] He lies, for I invented it myself.\nGo to, sirrah, tell the king from me, that, for his\nfather's sake, Henry the Fifth, in whose time boys\nwent to span-counter for French crowns, I am content\nhe shall reign; but I'll be protector over him.


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And good reason; for thereby is England mained, and\nfain to go with a staff, but that my puissance holds\nit up. Fellow kings, I tell you that that Lord Say\nhath gelded the commonwealth, and made it an eunuch:\nand more than that, he can speak French; and\ntherefore he is a traitor.


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Nay, answer, if you can: the Frenchmen are our\nenemies; go to, then, I ask but this: can he that\nspeaks with the tongue of an enemy be a good\ncounsellor, or no?


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Herald, away; and throughout every town\nProclaim them traitors that are up with Cade;\nThat those which fly before the battle ends\nMay, even in their wives' and children's sight,\nBe hang'd up for example at their doors:\nAnd you that be the king's friends, follow me.


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And you that love the commons, follow me.\nNow show yourselves men; 'tis for liberty.\nWe will not leave one lord, one gentleman:\nSpare none but such as go in clouted shoon;\nFor they are thrifty honest men, and such\nAs would, but that they dare not, take our parts.


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[Exeunt]\n[Alarums to the fight, wherein SIR HUMPHREY and]\nWILLIAM STAFFORD are slain. Enter CADE and the rest]


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They fell before thee like sheep and oxen, and thou\nbehavedst thyself as if thou hadst been in thine own\nslaughter-house: therefore thus will I reward thee,\nthe Lent shall be as long again as it is; and thou\nshalt have a licence to kill for a hundred lacking\none.


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And, to speak truth, thou deservest no less. This\nmonument of the victory will I bear;\n[Putting on SIR HUMPHREY'S brigandine]\nand the bodies shall be dragged at my horse' heels\ntill I do come to London, where we will have the\nmayor's sword borne before us.


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[Exeunt]\n[Enter KING HENRY VI with a supplication, and the]\nQUEEN with SUFFOLK'S head, BUCKINGHAM and Lord SAY]


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Oft have I heard that grief softens the mind,\nAnd makes it fearful and degenerate;\nThink therefore on revenge and cease to weep.\nBut who can cease to weep and look on this?\nHere may his head lie on my throbbing breast:\nBut where's the body that I should embrace?


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I'll send some holy bishop to entreat;\nFor God forbid so many simple souls\nShould perish by the sword! And I myself,\nRather than bloody war shall cut them short,\nWill parley with Jack Cade their general:\nBut stay, I'll read it over once again.


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Ah, barbarous villains! hath this lovely face\nRuled, like a wandering planet, over me,\nAnd could it not enforce them to relent,\nThat were unworthy to behold the same?


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How now, madam!\nStill lamenting and mourning for Suffolk's death?\nI fear me, love, if that I had been dead,\nThou wouldst not have mourn'd so much for me.


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The rebels are in Southwark; fly, my lord!\nJack Cade proclaims himself Lord Mortimer,\nDescended from the Duke of Clarence' house,\nAnd calls your grace usurper openly\nAnd vows to crown himself in Westminster.\nHis army is a ragged multitude\nOf hinds and peasants, rude and merciless:\nSir Humphrey Stafford and his brother's death\nHath given them heart and courage to proceed:\nAll scholars, lawyers, courtiers, gentlemen,\nThey call false caterpillars, and intend their death.


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So might your grace's person be in danger.\nThe sight of me is odious in their eyes;\nAnd therefore in this city will I stay\nAnd live alone as secret as I may.


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Jack Cade hath gotten London bridge:\nThe citizens fly and forsake their houses:\nThe rascal people, thirsting after prey,\nJoin with the traitor, and they jointly swear\nTo spoil the city and your royal court.


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No, my lord, nor likely to be slain; for they have\nwon the bridge, killing all those that withstand\nthem: the lord mayor craves aid of your honour from\nthe Tower, to defend the city from the rebels.


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Such aid as I can spare you shall command;\nBut I am troubled here with them myself;\nThe rebels have assay'd to win the Tower.\nBut get you to Smithfield, and gather head,\nAnd thither I will send you Matthew Goffe;\nFight for your king, your country and your lives;\nAnd so, farewell, for I must hence again.


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Now is Mortimer lord of this city. And here, sitting\nupon London-stone, I charge and command that, of the\ncity's cost, the pissing-conduit run nothing but\nclaret wine this first year of our reign. And now\nhenceforward it shall be treason for any that calls\nme other than Lord Mortimer.


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Come, then, let's go fight with them; but first, go\nand set London bridge on fire; and, if you can, burn\ndown the Tower too. Come, let's away.


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[Aside] Mass, 'twill be sore law, then; for he was\nthrust in the mouth with a spear, and 'tis not whole\nyet.


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I have thought upon it, it shall be so. Away, burn\nall the records of the realm: my mouth shall be\nthe parliament of England.


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My lord, a prize, a prize! here's the Lord Say,\nwhich sold the towns in France; he that made us pay\none and twenty fifteens, and one shilling to the\npound, the last subsidy.


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Well, he shall be beheaded for it ten times. Ah,\nthou say, thou serge, nay, thou buckram lord! now\nart thou within point-blank of our jurisdiction\nregal. What canst thou answer to my majesty for\ngiving up of Normandy unto Mounsieur Basimecu, the\ndauphin of France? Be it known unto thee by these\npresence, even the presence of Lord Mortimer, that I\nam the besom that must sweep the court clean of such\nfilth as thou art. Thou hast most traitorously\ncorrupted the youth of the realm in erecting a\ngrammar school; and whereas, before, our forefathers\nhad no other books but the score and the tally, thou\nhast caused printing to be used, and, contrary to\nthe king, his crown and dignity, thou hast built a\npaper-mill. It will be proved to thy face that thou\nhast men about thee that usually talk of a noun and\na verb, and such abominable words as no Christian\near can endure to hear. Thou hast appointed\njustices of peace, to call poor men before them\nabout matters they were not able to answer.\nMoreover, thou hast put them in prison; and because\nthey could not read, thou hast hanged them; when,\nindeed, only for that cause they have been most\nworthy to live. Thou dost ride in a foot-cloth, dost thou not?


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Marry, thou oughtest not to let thy horse wear a\ncloak, when honester men than thou go in their hose\nand doublets.


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Hear me but speak, and bear me where you will.\nKent, in the Commentaries Caesar writ,\nIs term'd the civil'st place of this isle:\nSweet is the country, because full of riches;\nThe people liberal, valiant, active, wealthy;\nWhich makes me hope you are not void of pity.\nI sold not Maine, I lost not Normandy,\nYet, to recover them, would lose my life.\nJustice with favour have I always done;\nPrayers and tears have moved me, gifts could never.\nWhen have I aught exacted at your hands,\nBut to maintain the king, the realm and you?\nLarge gifts have I bestow'd on learned clerks,\nBecause my book preferr'd me to the king,\nAnd seeing ignorance is the curse of God,\nKnowledge the wing wherewith we fly to heaven,\nUnless you be possess'd with devilish spirits,\nYou cannot but forbear to murder me:\nThis tongue hath parley'd unto foreign kings\nFor your behoof,--


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Nay, he nods at us, as who should say, I'll be even\nwith you: I'll see if his head will stand steadier\non a pole, or no. Take him away, and behead him.


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Tell me wherein have I offended most?\nHave I affected wealth or honour? speak.\nAre my chests fill'd up with extorted gold?\nIs my apparel sumptuous to behold?\nWhom have I injured, that ye seek my death?\nThese hands are free from guiltless bloodshedding,\nThis breast from harbouring foul deceitful thoughts.\nO, let me live!


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[Aside] I feel remorse in myself with his words;\nbut I'll bridle it: he shall die, an it be but for\npleading so well for his life. Away with him! he\nhas a familiar under his tongue; he speaks not o'\nGod's name. Go, take him away, I say, and strike\noff his head presently; and then break into his\nson-in-law's house, Sir James Cromer, and strike off\nhis head, and bring them both upon two poles hither.


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Ah, countrymen! if when you make your prayers,\nGod should be so obdurate as yourselves,\nHow would it fare with your departed souls?\nAnd therefore yet relent, and save my life.


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Away with him! and do as I command ye.\n[Exeunt some with Lord SAY]\nThe proudest peer in the realm shall not wear a head\non his shoulders, unless he pay me tribute; there\nshall not a maid be married, but she shall pay to me\nher maidenhead ere they have it: men shall hold of\nme in capite; and we charge and command that their\nwives be as free as heart can wish or tongue can tell.


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But is not this braver? Let them kiss one another,\nfor they loved well when they were alive. Now part\nthem again, lest they consult about the giving up of\nsome more towns in France. Soldiers, defer the\nspoil of the city until night: for with these borne\nbefore us, instead of maces, will we ride through\nthe streets, and at every corner have them kiss. Away!


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Up Fish Street! down Saint Magnus' Corner! Kill\nand knock down! throw them into Thames!\n[Sound a parley]\nWhat noise is this I hear? Dare any be so bold to\nsound retreat or parley, when I command them kill?


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Ay, here they be that dare and will disturb thee:\nKnow, Cade, we come ambassadors from the king\nUnto the commons whom thou hast misled;\nAnd here pronounce free pardon to them all\nThat will forsake thee and go home in peace.


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What say ye, countrymen? will ye relent,\nAnd yield to mercy whilst 'tis offer'd you;\nOr let a rebel lead you to your deaths?\nWho loves the king and will embrace his pardon,\nFling up his cap, and say 'God save his majesty!'\nWho hateth him and honours not his father,\nHenry the Fifth, that made all France to quake,\nShake he his weapon at us and pass by.


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What, Buckingham and Clifford, are ye so brave? And\nyou, base peasants, do ye believe him? will you\nneeds be hanged with your pardons about your necks?\nHath my sword therefore broke through London gates,\nthat you should leave me at the White Hart in\nSouthwark? I thought ye would never have given out\nthese arms till you had recovered your ancient\nfreedom: but you are all recreants and dastards,\nand delight to live in slavery to the nobility. Let\nthem break your backs with burthens, take your\nhouses over your heads, ravish your wives and\ndaughters before your faces: for me, I will make\nshift for one; and so, God's curse light upon you\nall!


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Is Cade the son of Henry the Fifth,\nThat thus you do exclaim you'll go with him?\nWill he conduct you through the heart of France,\nAnd make the meanest of you earls and dukes?\nAlas, he hath no home, no place to fly to;\nNor knows he how to live but by the spoil,\nUnless by robbing of your friends and us.\nWere't not a shame, that whilst you live at jar,\nThe fearful French, whom you late vanquished,\nShould make a start o'er seas and vanquish you?\nMethinks already in this civil broil\nI see them lording it in London streets,\nCrying 'Villiago!' unto all they meet.\nBetter ten thousand base-born Cades miscarry\nThan you should stoop unto a Frenchman's mercy.\nTo France, to France, and get what you have lost;\nSpare England, for it is your native coast;\nHenry hath money, you are strong and manly;\nGod on our side, doubt not of victory.


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Was ever feather so lightly blown to and fro as this\nmultitude? The name of Henry the Fifth hales them\nto an hundred mischiefs, and makes them leave me\ndesolate. I see them lay their heads together to\nsurprise me. My sword make way for me, for here is\nno staying. In despite of the devils and hell, have\nthrough the very middest of you? and heavens and\nhonour be witness, that no want of resolution in me.\nbut only my followers' base and ignominious\ntreasons, makes me betake me to my heels.


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What, is he fled? Go some, and follow him;\nAnd he that brings his head unto the king\nShall have a thousand crowns for his reward.\n[Exeunt some of them]\nFollow me, soldiers: we'll devise a mean\nTo reconcile you all unto the king.


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Was ever king that joy'd an earthly throne,\nAnd could command no more content than I?\nNo sooner was I crept out of my cradle\nBut I was made a king, at nine months old.\nWas never subject long'd to be a king\nAs I do long and wish to be a subject.


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Why, Buckingham, is the traitor Cade surprised?\nOr is he but retired to make him strong?\n[Enter below, multitudes, with halters about]\ntheir necks]


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He is fled, my lord, and all his powers do yield;\nAnd humbly thus, with halters on their necks,\nExpect your highness' doom of life or death.


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Then, heaven, set ope thy everlasting gates,\nTo entertain my vows of thanks and praise!\nSoldiers, this day have you redeemed your lives,\nAnd show'd how well you love your prince and country:\nContinue still in this so good a mind,\nAnd Henry, though he be infortunate,\nAssure yourselves, will never be unkind:\nAnd so, with thanks and pardon to you all,\nI do dismiss you to your several countries.


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Please it your grace to be advertised\nThe Duke of York is newly come from Ireland,\nAnd with a puissant and a mighty power\nOf gallowglasses and stout kerns\nIs marching hitherward in proud array,\nAnd still proclaimeth, as he comes along,\nHis arms are only to remove from thee\nThe Duke of Somerset, whom he terms traitor.


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Thus stands my state, 'twixt Cade and York distress'd.\nLike to a ship that, having 'scaped a tempest,\nIs straightway calm'd and boarded with a pirate:\nBut now is Cade driven back, his men dispersed;\nAnd now is York in arms to second him.\nI pray thee, Buckingham, go and meet him,\nAnd ask him what's the reason of these arms.\nTell him I'll send Duke Edmund to the Tower;\nAnd, Somerset, we'll commit thee thither,\nUntil his army be dismiss'd from him.


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Fie on ambition! fie on myself, that have a sword,\nand yet am ready to famish! These five days have I\nhid me in these woods and durst not peep out, for\nall the country is laid for me; but now am I so\nhungry that if I might have a lease of my life for a\nthousand years I could stay no longer. Wherefore,\non a brick wall have I climbed into this garden, to\nsee if I can eat grass, or pick a sallet another\nwhile, which is not amiss to cool a man's stomach\nthis hot weather. And I think this word 'sallet'\nwas born to do me good: for many a time, but for a\nsallet, my brainpan had been cleft with a brown\nbill; and many a time, when I have been dry and\nbravely marching, it hath served me instead of a\nquart pot to drink in; and now the word 'sallet'\nmust serve me to feed on.


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Lord, who would live turmoiled in the court,\nAnd may enjoy such quiet walks as these?\nThis small inheritance my father left me\nContenteth me, and worth a monarchy.\nI seek not to wax great by others' waning,\nOr gather wealth, I care not, with what envy:\nSufficeth that I have maintains my state\nAnd sends the poor well pleased from my gate.


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Here's the lord of the soil come to seize me for a\nstray, for entering his fee-simple without leave.\nAh, villain, thou wilt betray me, and get a thousand\ncrowns of the king carrying my head to him: but\nI'll make thee eat iron like an ostrich, and swallow\nmy sword like a great pin, ere thou and I part.


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Why, rude companion, whatsoe'er thou be,\nI know thee not; why, then, should I betray thee?\nIs't not enough to break into my garden,\nAnd, like a thief, to come to rob my grounds,\nClimbing my walls in spite of me the owner,\nBut thou wilt brave me with these saucy terms?


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Brave thee! ay, by the best blood that ever was\nbroached, and beard thee too. Look on me well: I\nhave eat no meat these five days; yet, come thou and\nthy five men, and if I do not leave you all as dead\nas a doornail, I pray God I may never eat grass more.


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Nay, it shall ne'er be said, while England stands,\nThat Alexander Iden, an esquire of Kent,\nTook odds to combat a poor famish'd man.\nOppose thy steadfast-gazing eyes to mine,\nSee if thou canst outface me with thy looks:\nSet limb to limb, and thou art far the lesser;\nThy hand is but a finger to my fist,\nThy leg a stick compared with this truncheon;\nMy foot shall fight with all the strength thou hast;\nAnd if mine arm be heaved in the air,\nThy grave is digg'd already in the earth.\nAs for words, whose greatness answers words,\nLet this my sword report what speech forbears.


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By my valour, the most complete champion that ever I\nheard! Steel, if thou turn the edge, or cut not out\nthe burly-boned clown in chines of beef ere thou\nsleep in thy sheath, I beseech God on my knees thou\nmayst be turned to hobnails.\n[Here they fight. CADE falls]\nO, I am slain! famine and no other hath slain me:\nlet ten thousand devils come against me, and give me\nbut the ten meals I have lost, and I'll defy them\nall. Wither, garden; and be henceforth a\nburying-place to all that do dwell in this house,\nbecause the unconquered soul of Cade is fled.


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Is't Cade that I have slain, that monstrous traitor?\nSword, I will hollow thee for this thy deed,\nAnd hang thee o'er my tomb when I am dead:\nNe'er shall this blood be wiped from thy point;\nBut thou shalt wear it as a herald's coat,\nTo emblaze the honour that thy master got.


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Iden, farewell, and be proud of thy victory. Tell\nKent from me, she hath lost her best man, and exhort\nall the world to be cowards; for I, that never\nfeared any, am vanquished by famine, not by valour.


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How much thou wrong'st me, heaven be my judge.\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 soul to hell.\nHence will I drag thee headlong by the heels\nUnto a dunghill which shall be thy grave,\nAnd there cut off thy most ungracious head;\nWhich I will bear in triumph to the king,\nLeaving thy trunk for crows to feed upon.


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From Ireland thus comes York to claim his right,\nAnd pluck the crown from feeble Henry's head:\nRing, bells, aloud; burn, bonfires, clear and bright,\nTo entertain great England's lawful king.\nAh! sancta majestas, who would not buy thee dear?\nLet them obey that know not how to rule;\nThis hand was made to handle naught but gold.\nI cannot give due action to my words,\nExcept a sword or sceptre balance it:\nA sceptre shall it have, have I a soul,\nOn which I'll toss the flower-de-luce of France.\n[Enter BUCKINGHAM]\nWhom have we here? Buckingham, to disturb me?\nThe king hath sent him, sure: I must dissemble.


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A messenger from Henry, our dread liege,\nTo know the reason of these arms in peace;\nOr why thou, being a subject as I am,\nAgainst thy oath and true allegiance sworn,\nShould raise so great a power without his leave,\nOr dare to bring thy force so near the court.


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[Aside] Scarce can I speak, my choler is so great:\nO, I could hew up rocks and fight with flint,\nI am so angry at these abject terms;\nAnd now, like Ajax Telamonius,\nOn sheep or oxen could I spend my fury.\nI am far better born than is the king,\nMore like a king, more kingly in my thoughts:\nBut I must make fair weather yet a while,\nTill Henry be more weak and I more strong,--\nBuckingham, I prithee, pardon me,\nThat I have given no answer all this while;\nMy mind was troubled with deep melancholy.\nThe cause why I have brought this army hither\nIs to remove proud Somerset from the king,\nSeditious to his grace and to the state.


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That is too much presumption on thy part:\nBut if thy arms be to no other end,\nThe king hath yielded unto thy demand:\nThe Duke of Somerset is in the Tower.


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Then, Buckingham, I do dismiss my powers.\nSoldiers, I thank you all; disperse yourselves;\nMeet me to-morrow in St. George's field,\nYou shall have pay and every thing you wish.\nAnd let my sovereign, virtuous Henry,\nCommand my eldest son, nay, all my sons,\nAs pledges of my fealty and love;\nI'll send them all as willing as I live:\nLands, goods, horse, armour, any thing I have,\nIs his to use, so Somerset may die.


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To heave the traitor Somerset from hence,\nAnd fight against that monstrous rebel Cade,\nWho since I heard to be discomfited.


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If one so rude and of so mean condition\nMay pass into the presence of a king,\nLo, I present your grace a traitor's head,\nThe head of Cade, whom I in combat slew.


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The head of Cade! Great God, how just art Thou!\nO, let me view his visage, being dead,\nThat living wrought me such exceeding trouble.\nTell me, my friend, art thou the man that slew him?


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Iden, kneel down.\n[He kneels]\nRise up a knight.\nWe give thee for reward a thousand marks,\nAnd will that thou henceforth attend on us.


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How now! is Somerset at liberty?\nThen, York, unloose thy long-imprison'd thoughts,\nAnd let thy tongue be equal with thy heart.\nShall I endure the sight of Somerset?\nFalse king! why hast thou broken faith with me,\nKnowing how hardly I can brook abuse?\nKing did I call thee? no, thou art not king,\nNot fit to govern and rule multitudes,\nWhich darest not, no, nor canst not rule a traitor.\nThat head of thine doth not become a crown;\nThy hand is made to grasp a palmer's staff,\nAnd not to grace an awful princely sceptre.\nThat gold must round engirt these brows of mine,\nWhose smile and frown, like to Achilles' spear,\nIs able with the change to kill and cure.\nHere is a hand to hold a sceptre up\nAnd with the same to act controlling laws.\nGive place: by heaven, thou shalt rule no more\nO'er him whom heaven created for thy ruler.


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O monstrous traitor! I arrest thee, York,\nOf capital treason 'gainst the king and crown;\nObey, audacious traitor; kneel for grace.


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Wouldst have me kneel? first let me ask of these,\nIf they can brook I bow a knee to man.\nSirrah, call in my sons to be my bail;\n[Exit Attendant]\nI know, ere they will have me go to ward,\nThey'll pawn their swords for my enfranchisement.


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Call hither Clifford! bid him come amain,\nTo say if that the bastard boys of York\nShall be the surety for their traitor father.


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O blood-besotted Neapolitan,\nOutcast of Naples, England's bloody scourge!\nThe sons of York, thy betters in their birth,\nShall be their father's bail; and bane to those\nThat for my surety will refuse the boys!\n[Enter EDWARD and RICHARD]\nSee where they come: I'll warrant they'll\nmake it good.


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I thank thee, Clifford: say, what news with thee?\nNay, do not fright us with an angry look;\nWe are thy sovereign, Clifford, kneel again;\nFor thy mistaking so, we pardon thee.


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This is my king, York, I do not mistake;\nBut thou mistakest me much to think I do:\nTo Bedlam with him! is the man grown mad?


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Look in a glass, and call thy image so:\nI am thy king, and thou a false-heart traitor.\nCall hither to the stake my two brave bears,\nThat with the very shaking of their chains\nThey may astonish these fell-lurking curs:\nBid Salisbury and Warwick come to me.


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Are these thy bears? we'll bait thy bears to death.\nAnd manacle the bear-ward in their chains,\nIf thou darest bring them to the baiting place.


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Oft have I seen a hot o'erweening cur\nRun back and bite, because he was withheld;\nWho, being suffer'd with the bear's fell paw,\nHath clapp'd his tail between his legs and cried:\nAnd such a piece of service will you do,\nIf you oppose yourselves to match Lord Warwick.


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Why, Warwick, hath thy knee forgot to bow?\nOld Salisbury, shame to thy silver hair,\nThou mad misleader of thy brain-sick son!\nWhat, wilt thou on thy death-bed play the ruffian,\nAnd seek for sorrow with thy spectacles?\nO, where is faith? O, where is loyalty?\nIf it be banish'd from the frosty head,\nWhere shall it find a harbour in the earth?\nWilt thou go dig a grave to find out war,\nAnd shame thine honourable age with blood?\nWhy art thou old, and want'st experience?\nOr wherefore dost abuse it, if thou hast it?\nFor shame! in duty bend thy knee to me\nThat bows unto the grave with mickle age.


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My lord, I have consider'd with myself\nThe title of this most renowned duke;\nAnd in my conscience do repute his grace\nThe rightful heir to England's royal seat.


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It is great sin to swear unto a sin,\nBut greater sin to keep a sinful oath.\nWho can be bound by any solemn vow\nTo do a murderous deed, to rob a man,\nTo force a spotless virgin's chastity,\nTo reave the orphan of his patrimony,\nTo wring the widow from her custom'd right,\nAnd have no other reason for this wrong\nBut that he was bound by a solemn oath?


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I am resolved to bear a greater storm\nThan any thou canst conjure up to-day;\nAnd that I'll write upon thy burgonet,\nMight I but know thee by thy household badge.


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Now, by my father's badge, old Nevil's crest,\nThe rampant bear chain'd to the ragged staff,\nThis day I'll wear aloft my burgonet,\nAs on a mountain top the cedar shows\nThat keeps his leaves in spite of any storm,\nEven to affright thee with the view thereof.


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And from thy burgonet I'll rend thy bear\nAnd tread it under foot with all contempt,\nDespite the bear-ward that protects the bear.


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Clifford of Cumberland, 'tis Warwick calls:\nAnd if thou dost not hide thee from the bear,\nNow, when the angry trumpet sounds alarum\nAnd dead men's cries do fill the empty air,\nClifford, I say, come forth and fight with me:\nProud northern lord, Clifford of Cumberland,\nWarwick is hoarse with calling thee to arms.\n[Enter YORK]\nHow now, my noble lord? what, all afoot?


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The deadly-handed Clifford slew my steed,\nBut match to match I have encounter'd him\nAnd made a prey for carrion kites and crows\nEven of the bonny beast he loved so well.


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Then, nobly, York; 'tis for a crown thou fight'st.\nAs I intend, Clifford, to thrive to-day,\nIt grieves my soul to leave thee unassail'd.


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Thus war hath given thee peace, for thou art still.\nPeace with his soul, heaven, if it be thy will!


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Shame and confusion! all is on the rout;\nFear frames disorder, and disorder wounds\nWhere it should guard. O war, thou son of hell,\nWhom angry heavens do make their minister\nThrow in the frozen bosoms of our part\nHot coals of vengeance! Let no soldier fly.\nHe that is truly dedicate to war\nHath no self-love, nor he that loves himself\nHath not essentially but by circumstance\nThe name of valour.\n[Seeing his dead father]\nO, let the vile world end,\nAnd the premised flames of the last day\nKnit earth and heaven together!\nNow let the general trumpet blow his blast,\nParticularities and petty sounds\nTo cease! Wast thou ordain'd, dear father,\nTo lose thy youth in peace, and to achieve\nThe silver livery of advised age,\nAnd, in thy reverence and thy chair-days, thus\nTo die in ruffian battle? Even at this sight\nMy heart is turn'd to stone: and while 'tis mine,\nIt shall be stony. York not our old men spares;\nNo more will I their babes: tears virginal\nShall be to me even as the dew to fire,\nAnd beauty that the tyrant oft reclaims\nShall to my flaming wrath be oil and flax.\nHenceforth I will not have to do with pity:\nMeet I an infant of the house of York,\nInto as many gobbets will I cut it\nAs wild Medea young Absyrtus did:\nIn cruelty will I seek out my fame.\nCome, thou new ruin of old Clifford's house:\nAs did AEneas old Anchises bear,\nSo bear I thee upon my manly shoulders;\nBut then AEneas bare a living load,\nNothing so heavy as these woes of mine.\n[Exit, bearing off his father]\n[Enter RICHARD and SOMERSET to fight. SOMERSET]\nis killed]


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So, lie thou there;\nFor underneath an alehouse' paltry sign,\nThe Castle in Saint Alban's, Somerset\nHath made the wizard famous in his death.\nSword, hold thy temper; heart, be wrathful still:\nPriests pray for enemies, but princes kill.\n[Exit]\n[Fight: excursions. Enter KING HENRY VI, QUEEN]\nMARGARET, and others]


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What are you made of? you'll nor fight nor fly:\nNow is it manhood, wisdom and defence,\nTo give the enemy way, and to secure us\nBy what we can, which can no more but fly.\n[Alarum afar off]\nIf you be ta'en, we then should see the bottom\nOf all our fortunes: but if we haply scape,\nAs well we may, if not through your neglect,\nWe shall to London get, where you are loved\nAnd where this breach now in our fortunes made\nMay readily be stopp'd.


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But that my heart's on future mischief set,\nI would speak blasphemy ere bid you fly:\nBut fly you must; uncurable discomfit\nReigns in the hearts of all our present parts.\nAway, for your relief! and we will live\nTo see their day and them our fortune give:\nAway, my lord, away!


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Of Salisbury, who can report of him,\nThat winter lion, who in rage forgets\nAged contusions and all brush of time,\nAnd, like a gallant in the brow of youth,\nRepairs him with occasion? This happy day\nIs not itself, nor have we won one foot,\nIf Salisbury be lost.


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My noble father,\nThree times to-day I holp him to his horse,\nThree times bestrid him; thrice I led him off,\nPersuaded 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, look where he comes.


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Now, by my sword, well hast thou fought to-day;\nBy the mass, so did we all. I thank you, Richard:\nGod knows how long it is I have to live;\nAnd it hath pleased him that three times to-day\nYou have defended me from imminent death.\nWell, lords, we have not got that which we have:\n'Tis not enough our foes are this time fled,\nBeing opposites of such repairing nature.


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I know our safety is to follow them;\nFor, as I hear, the king is fled to London,\nTo call a present court of parliament.\nLet us pursue him ere the writs go forth.\nWhat says Lord Warwick? shall we after them?


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After them! nay, before them, if we can.\nNow, by my faith, lords, 'twas a glorious day:\nSaint Alban's battle won by famous York\nShall be eternized in all age to come.\nSound drums and trumpets, and to London all:\nAnd more such days as these to us befall!


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While we pursued the horsemen of the north,\nHe slily stole away and left his men:\nWhereat the great Lord of Northumberland,\nWhose warlike ears could never brook retreat,\nCheer'd up the drooping army; and himself,\nLord Clifford and Lord Stafford, all abreast,\nCharged our main battle's front, and breaking in\nWere by the swords of common soldiers slain.


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Lord Stafford's father, Duke of Buckingham,\nIs either slain or wounded dangerously;\nI cleft his beaver with a downright blow:\nThat this is true, father, behold his blood.


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And so do I. Victorious Prince of York,\nBefore I see thee seated in that throne\nWhich now the house of Lancaster usurps,\nI vow by heaven these eyes shall never close.\nThis is the palace of the fearful king,\nAnd this the regal seat: possess it, York;\nFor this is thine and not King Henry's heirs'


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The queen this day here holds her parliament,\nBut little thinks we shall be of her council:\nBy words or blows here let us win our right.


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The bloody parliament shall this be call'd,\nUnless Plantagenet, Duke of York, be king,\nAnd bashful Henry deposed, whose cowardice\nHath made us by-words to our enemies.


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Neither the king, nor he that loves him best,\nThe proudest he that holds up Lancaster,\nDares stir a wing, if Warwick shake his bells.\nI'll plant Plantagenet, root him up who dares:\nResolve thee, Richard; claim the English crown.\n[Flourish. Enter KING HENRY VI, CLIFFORD,]\nNORTHUMBERLAND, WESTMORELAND, EXETER, and the rest]


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My lords, look where the sturdy rebel sits,\nEven in the chair of state: belike he means,\nBack'd by the power of Warwick, that false peer,\nTo aspire unto the crown and reign as king.\nEarl of Northumberland, he slew thy father.\nAnd thine, Lord Clifford; and you both have vow'd revenge\nOn him, his sons, his favourites and his friends.


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Patience is for poltroons, such as he:\nHe durst not sit there, had your father lived.\nMy gracious lord, here in the parliament\nLet us assail the family of York.


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Far be the thought of this from Henry's heart,\nTo make a shambles of the parliament-house!\nCousin of Exeter, frowns, words and threats\nShall be the war that Henry means to use.\nThou factious Duke of York, descend my throne,\nand kneel for grace and mercy at my feet;\nI am thy sovereign.


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And Warwick shall disprove it. You forget\nThat we are those which chased you from the field\nAnd slew your fathers, and with colours spread\nMarch'd through the city to the palace gates.


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Plantagenet, of thee and these thy sons,\nThy kinsman and thy friends, I'll have more lives\nThan drops of blood were in my father's veins.


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Urge it no more; lest that, instead of words,\nI send thee, Warwick, such a messenger\nAs shall revenge his death before I stir.


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What title hast thou, traitor, to the crown?\nThy father was, as thou art, Duke of York;\nThy grandfather, Roger Mortimer, Earl of March:\nI am the son of Henry the Fifth,\nWho made the Dauphin and the French to stoop\nAnd seized upon their towns and provinces.


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You are old enough now, and yet, methinks, you lose.\nFather, tear the crown from the usurper's head.


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Plantagenet shall speak first: hear him, lords;\nAnd be you silent and attentive too,\nFor he that interrupts him shall not live.


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Think'st thou that I will leave my kingly throne,\nWherein my grandsire and my father sat?\nNo: first shall war unpeople this my realm;\nAy, and their colours, often borne in France,\nAnd now in England to our heart's great sorrow,\nShall be my winding-sheet. Why faint you, lords?\nMy title's good, and better far than his.


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An if he may, then am I lawful king;\nFor Richard, in the view of many lords,\nResign'd the crown to Henry the Fourth,\nWhose heir my father was, and I am his.


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Thou art deceived: 'tis not thy southern power,\nOf Essex, Norfolk, Suffolk, nor of Kent,\nWhich makes thee thus presumptuous and proud,\nCan set the duke up in despite of me.


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King Henry, be thy title right or wrong,\nLord Clifford vows to fight in thy defence:\nMay that ground gape and swallow me alive,\nWhere I shall kneel to him that slew my father!


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Do right unto this princely Duke of York,\nOr I will fill the house with armed men,\nAnd over the chair of state, where now he sits,\nWrite up his title with usurping blood.\n[He stamps with his foot and the soldiers show]\nthemselves]


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Not for myself, Lord Warwick, but my son,\nWhom I unnaturally shall disinherit.\nBut be it as it may: I here entail\nThe crown to thee and to thine heirs for ever;\nConditionally, that here thou take an oath\nTo cease this civil war, and, whilst I live,\nTo honour me as thy king and sovereign,\nAnd neither by treason nor hostility\nTo seek to put me down and reign thyself.


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And I unto the sea from whence I came.\n[Exeunt YORK, EDWARD, EDMUND, GEORGE, RICHARD,]\nWARWICK, NORFOLK, MONTAGUE, their Soldiers, and\nAttendants]


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Who can be patient in such extremes?\nAh, wretched man! would I had died a maid\nAnd never seen thee, never borne thee son,\nSeeing thou hast proved so unnatural a father\nHath he deserved to lose his birthright thus?\nHadst thou but loved him half so well as I,\nOr felt that pain which I did for him once,\nOr nourish'd him as I did with my blood,\nThou wouldst have left thy dearest heart-blood there,\nRather than have that savage duke thine heir\nAnd disinherited thine only son.


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Enforced thee! art thou king, and wilt be forced?\nI shame to hear thee speak. Ah, timorous wretch!\nThou hast undone thyself, thy son and me;\nAnd given unto the house of York such head\nAs thou shalt reign but by their sufferance.\nTo entail him and his heirs unto the crown,\nWhat is it, but to make thy sepulchre\nAnd creep into it far before thy time?\nWarwick is chancellor and the lord of Calais;\nStern Falconbridge commands the narrow seas;\nThe duke is made protector of the realm;\nAnd yet shalt thou be safe? such safety finds\nThe trembling lamb environed with wolves.\nHad I been there, which am a silly woman,\nThe soldiers should have toss'd me on their pikes\nBefore I would have granted to that act.\nBut thou preferr'st thy life before thine honour:\nAnd seeing thou dost, I here divorce myself\nBoth from thy table, Henry, and thy bed,\nUntil that act of parliament be repeal'd\nWhereby my son is disinherited.\nThe northern lords that have forsworn thy colours\nWill follow mine, if once they see them spread;\nAnd spread they shall be, to thy foul disgrace\nAnd utter ruin of the house of York.\nThus do I leave thee. Come, son, let's away;\nOur army is ready; come, we'll after them.


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Poor queen! how love to me and to her son\nHath made her break out into terms of rage!\nRevenged may she be on that hateful duke,\nWhose haughty spirit, winged with desire,\nWill cost my crown, and like an empty eagle\nTire on the flesh of me and of my son!\nThe loss of those three lords torments my heart:\nI'll write unto them and entreat them fair.\nCome, cousin you shall be the messenger.


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Now you are heir, therefore enjoy it now:\nBy giving the house of Lancaster leave to breathe,\nIt will outrun you, father, in the end.


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An oath is of no moment, being not took\nBefore a true and lawful magistrate,\nThat hath authority over him that swears:\nHenry had none, but did usurp the place;\nThen, seeing 'twas he that made you to depose,\nYour oath, my lord, is vain and frivolous.\nTherefore, to arms! And, father, do but think\nHow sweet a thing it is to wear a crown;\nWithin whose circuit is Elysium\nAnd all that poets feign of bliss and joy.\nWhy do we finger thus? I cannot rest\nUntil the white rose that I wear be dyed\nEven in the lukewarm blood of Henry's heart.


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Richard, enough; I will be king, or die.\nBrother, thou shalt to London presently,\nAnd whet on Warwick to this enterprise.\nThou, Richard, shalt to the Duke of Norfolk,\nAnd tell him privily of our intent.\nYou Edward, shall unto my Lord Cobham,\nWith whom the Kentishmen will willingly rise:\nIn them I trust; for they are soldiers,\nWitty, courteous, liberal, full of spirit.\nWhile you are thus employ'd, what resteth more,\nBut that I seek occasion how to rise,\nAnd yet the king not privy to my drift,\nNor any of the house of Lancaster?\n[Enter a Messenger]\nBut, stay: what news? Why comest thou in such post?


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The queen with all the northern earls and lords\nIntend here to besiege you in your castle:\nShe is hard by with twenty thousand men;\nAnd therefore fortify your hold, my lord.


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Ay, with my sword. What! think'st thou that we fear them?\nEdward and Richard, you shall stay with me;\nMy brother Montague shall post to London:\nLet noble Warwick, Cobham, and the rest,\nWhom we have left protectors of the king,\nWith powerful policy strengthen themselves,\nAnd trust not simple Henry nor his oaths.


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Brother, I go; I'll win them, fear it not:\nAnd thus most humbly I do take my leave.\n[Exit]\n[Enter JOHN MORTIMER and HUGH MORTIMER]\nSir John and Sir Hugh Mortimer, mine uncles,\nYou are come to Sandal in a happy hour;\nThe army of the queen mean to besiege us.


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Five men to twenty! though the odds be great,\nI doubt not, uncle, of our victory.\nMany a battle have I won in France,\nWhen as the enemy hath been ten to one:\nWhy should I not now have the like success?


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Chaplain, away! thy priesthood saves thy life.\nAs for the brat of this accursed duke,\nWhose father slew my father, he shall die.


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So looks the pent-up lion o'er the wretch\nThat trembles under his devouring paws;\nAnd so he walks, insulting o'er his prey,\nAnd so he comes, to rend his limbs asunder.\nAh, gentle Clifford, kill me with thy sword,\nAnd not with such a cruel threatening look.\nSweet Clifford, hear me speak before I die.\nI am too mean a subject for thy wrath:\nBe thou revenged on men, and let me live.


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In vain thou speak'st, poor boy; my father's blood\nHath stopp'd the passage where thy words should enter.


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Had thy brethren here, their lives and thine\nWere not revenge sufficient for me;\nNo, if I digg'd up thy forefathers' graves\nAnd hung their rotten coffins up in chains,\nIt could not slake mine ire, nor ease my heart.\nThe sight of any of the house of York\nIs as a fury to torment my soul;\nAnd till I root out their accursed line\nAnd leave not one alive, I live in hell.\nTherefore--


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But 'twas ere I was born.\nThou hast one son; for his sake pity me,\nLest in revenge thereof, sith God is just,\nHe be as miserably slain as I.\nAh, let me live in prison all my days;\nAnd when I give occasion of offence,\nThen let me die, for now thou hast no cause.


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Plantagenet! I come, Plantagenet!\nAnd this thy son's blood cleaving to my blade\nShall rust upon my weapon, till thy blood,\nCongeal'd with this, do make me wipe off both.


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The army of the queen hath got the field:\nMy uncles both are slain in rescuing me;\nAnd all my followers to the eager foe\nTurn back and fly, like ships before the wind\nOr lambs pursued by hunger-starved wolves.\nMy sons, God knows what hath bechanced them:\nBut this I know, they have demean'd themselves\nLike men born to renown by life or death.\nThree times did Richard make a lane to me.\nAnd thrice cried 'Courage, father! fight it out!'\nAnd full as oft came Edward to my side,\nWith purple falchion, painted to the hilt\nIn blood of those that had encounter'd him:\nAnd when the hardiest warriors did retire,\nRichard cried 'Charge! and give no foot of ground!'\nAnd cried 'A crown, or else a glorious tomb!\nA sceptre, or an earthly sepulchre!'\nWith this, we charged again: but, out, alas!\nWe bodged again; as I have seen a swan\nWith bootless labour swim against the tide\nAnd spend her strength with over-matching waves.\n[A short alarum within]\nAh, hark! the fatal followers do pursue;\nAnd I am faint and cannot fly their fury:\nAnd were I strong, I would not shun their fury:\nThe sands are number'd that make up my life;\nHere must I stay, and here my life must end.\n[Enter QUEEN MARGARET, CLIFFORD, NORTHUMBERLAND,]\nPRINCE EDWARD, and Soldiers]\nCome, bloody Clifford, rough Northumberland,\nI dare your quenchless fury to more rage:\nI am your butt, and I abide your shot.


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Ay, to such mercy as his ruthless arm,\nWith downright payment, show'd unto my father.\nNow Phaethon hath tumbled from his car,\nAnd made an evening at the noontide prick.


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My ashes, as the phoenix, may bring forth\nA bird that will revenge upon you all:\nAnd in that hope I throw mine eyes to heaven,\nScorning whate'er you can afflict me with.\nWhy come you not? what! multitudes, and fear?


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So cowards fight when they can fly no further;\nSo doves do peck the falcon's piercing talons;\nSo desperate thieves, all hopeless of their lives,\nBreathe out invectives 'gainst the officers.


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O Clifford, but bethink thee once again,\nAnd in thy thought o'er-run my former time;\nAnd, if though canst for blushing, view this face,\nAnd bite thy tongue, that slanders him with cowardice\nWhose frown hath made thee faint and fly ere this!


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Hold, valiant Clifford! for a thousand causes\nI would prolong awhile the traitor's life.\nWrath makes him deaf: speak thou, Northumberland.


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Hold, Clifford! do not honour him so much\nTo prick thy finger, though to wound his heart:\nWhat valour were it, when a cur doth grin,\nFor one to thrust his hand between his teeth,\nWhen he might spurn him with his foot away?\nIt is war's prize to take all vantages;\nAnd ten to one is no impeach of valour.


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Brave warriors, Clifford and Northumberland,\nCome, make him stand upon this molehill here,\nThat raught at mountains with outstretched arms,\nYet parted but the shadow with his hand.\nWhat! was it you that would be England's king?\nWas't you that revell'd in our parliament,\nAnd made a preachment of your high descent?\nWhere are your mess of sons to back you now?\nThe wanton Edward, and the lusty George?\nAnd where's that valiant crook-back prodigy,\nDicky your boy, that with his grumbling voice\nWas wont to cheer his dad in mutinies?\nOr, with the rest, where is your darling Rutland?\nLook, York: I stain'd this napkin with the blood\nThat valiant Clifford, with his rapier's point,\nMade issue from the bosom of the boy;\nAnd if thine eyes can water for his death,\nI give thee this to dry thy cheeks withal.\nAlas poor York! but that I hate thee deadly,\nI should lament thy miserable state.\nI prithee, grieve, to make me merry, York.\nWhat, hath thy fiery heart so parch'd thine entrails\nThat not a tear can fall for Rutland's death?\nWhy art thou patient, man? thou shouldst be mad;\nAnd I, to make thee mad, do mock thee thus.\nStamp, rave, and fret, that I may sing and dance.\nThou wouldst be fee'd, I see, to make me sport:\nYork cannot speak, unless he wear a crown.\nA crown for York! and, lords, bow low to him:\nHold you his hands, whilst I do set it on.\n[Putting a paper crown on his head]\nAy, marry, sir, now looks he like a king!\nAy, this is he that took King Henry's chair,\nAnd this is he was his adopted heir.\nBut how is it that great Plantagenet\nIs crown'd so soon, and broke his solemn oath?\nAs I bethink me, you should not be king\nTill our King Henry had shook hands with death.\nAnd will you pale your head in Henry's glory,\nAnd rob his temples of the diadem,\nNow in his life, against your holy oath?\nO, 'tis a fault too too unpardonable!\nOff with the crown, and with the crown his head;\nAnd, whilst we breathe, take time to do him dead.


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She-wolf of France, but worse than wolves of France,\nWhose tongue more poisons than the adder's tooth!\nHow ill-beseeming is it in thy sex\nTo triumph, like an Amazonian trull,\nUpon their woes whom fortune captivates!\nBut that thy face is, vizard-like, unchanging,\nMade impudent with use of evil deeds,\nI would assay, proud queen, to make thee blush.\nTo tell thee whence thou camest, of whom derived,\nWere shame enough to shame thee, wert thou not shameless.\nThy father bears the type of King of Naples,\nOf both the Sicils and Jerusalem,\nYet not so wealthy as an English yeoman.\nHath that poor monarch taught thee to insult?\nIt needs not, nor it boots thee not, proud queen,\nUnless the adage must be verified,\nThat beggars mounted run their horse to death.\n'Tis beauty that doth oft make women proud;\nBut, God he knows, thy share thereof is small:\n'Tis virtue that doth make them most admired;\nThe contrary doth make thee wonder'd at:\n'Tis government that makes them seem divine;\nThe want thereof makes thee abominable:\nThou art as opposite to every good\nAs the Antipodes are unto us,\nOr as the south to the septentrion.\nO tiger's heart wrapt in a woman's hide!\nHow couldst thou drain the life-blood of the child,\nTo bid the father wipe his eyes withal,\nAnd yet be seen to bear a woman's face?\nWomen are soft, mild, pitiful and flexible;\nThou stern, obdurate, flinty, rough, remorseless.\nBids't thou me rage? why, now thou hast thy wish:\nWouldst have me weep? why, now thou hast thy will:\nFor raging wind blows up incessant showers,\nAnd when the rage allays, the rain begins.\nThese tears are my sweet Rutland's obsequies:\nAnd every drop cries vengeance for his death,\n'Gainst thee, fell Clifford, and thee, false\nFrenchwoman.


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That face of his the hungry cannibals\nWould not have touch'd, would not have stain'd with blood:\nBut you are more inhuman, more inexorable,\nO, ten times more, than tigers of Hyrcania.\nSee, ruthless queen, a hapless father's tears:\nThis cloth thou dip'dst in blood of my sweet boy,\nAnd I with tears do wash the blood away.\nKeep thou the napkin, and go boast of this:\nAnd if thou tell'st the heavy story right,\nUpon my soul, the hearers will shed tears;\nYea even my foes will shed fast-falling tears,\nAnd say 'Alas, it was a piteous deed!'\nThere, take the crown, and, with the crown, my curse;\nAnd in thy need such comfort come to thee\nAs now I reap at thy too cruel hand!\nHard-hearted Clifford, take me from the world:\nMy soul to heaven, my blood upon your heads!


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Had he been slaughter-man to all my kin,\nI should not for my life but weep with him.\nTo see how inly sorrow gripes his soul.


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What, weeping-ripe, my Lord Northumberland?\nThink but upon the wrong he did us all,\nAnd that will quickly dry thy melting tears.


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I wonder how our princely father 'scaped,\nOr whether he be 'scaped away or no\nFrom Clifford's and Northumberland's pursuit:\nHad he been ta'en, we should have heard the news;\nHad he been slain, we should have heard the news;\nOr had he 'scaped, methinks we should have heard\nThe happy tidings of his good escape.\nHow fares my brother? why is he so sad?


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I cannot joy, until I be resolved\nWhere our right valiant father is become.\nI saw him in the battle range about;\nAnd watch'd him how he singled Clifford forth.\nMethought he bore him in the thickest troop\nAs doth a lion in a herd of neat;\nOr as a bear, encompass'd round with dogs,\nWho having pinch'd a few and made them cry,\nThe rest stand all aloof, and bark at him.\nSo fared our father with his enemies;\nSo fled his enemies my warlike father:\nMethinks, 'tis prize enough to be his son.\nSee how the morning opes her golden gates,\nAnd takes her farewell of the glorious sun!\nHow well resembles it the prime of youth,\nTrimm'd like a younker prancing to his love!


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Three glorious suns, each one a perfect sun;\nNot separated with the racking clouds,\nBut sever'd in a pale clear-shining sky.\nSee, see! they join, embrace, and seem to kiss,\nAs if they vow'd some league inviolable:\nNow are they but one lamp, one light, one sun.\nIn this the heaven figures some event.


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'Tis wondrous strange, the like yet never heard of.\nI think it cites us, brother, to the field,\nThat we, the sons of brave Plantagenet,\nEach one already blazing by our meeds,\nShould notwithstanding join our lights together\nAnd over-shine the earth as this the world.\nWhate'er it bodes, henceforward will I bear\nUpon my target three fair-shining suns.


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Nay, bear three daughters: by your leave I speak it,\nYou love the breeder better than the male.\n[Enter a Messenger]\nBut what art thou, whose heavy looks foretell\nSome dreadful story hanging on thy tongue?


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Ah, one that was a woful looker-on\nWhen as the noble Duke of York was slain,\nYour princely father and my loving lord!


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Environed he was with many foes,\nAnd stood against them, as the hope of Troy\nAgainst the Greeks that would have enter'd Troy.\nBut Hercules himself must yield to odds;\nAnd many strokes, though with a little axe,\nHew down and fell the hardest-timber'd oak.\nBy many hands your father was subdued;\nBut only slaughter'd by the ireful arm\nOf unrelenting Clifford and the queen,\nWho crown'd the gracious duke in high despite,\nLaugh'd in his face; and when with grief he wept,\nThe ruthless queen gave him to dry his cheeks\nA napkin steeped in the harmless blood\nOf sweet young Rutland, by rough Clifford slain:\nAnd after many scorns, many foul taunts,\nThey took his head, and on the gates of York\nThey set the same; and there it doth remain,\nThe saddest spectacle that e'er I view'd.


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Sweet Duke of York, our prop to lean upon,\nNow thou art gone, we have no staff, no stay.\nO Clifford, boisterous Clifford! thou hast slain\nThe flower of Europe for his chivalry;\nAnd treacherously hast thou vanquish'd him,\nFor hand to hand he would have vanquish'd thee.\nNow my soul's palace is become a prison:\nAh, would she break from hence, that this my body\nMight in the ground be closed up in rest!\nFor never henceforth shall I joy again,\nNever, O never shall I see more joy!


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I cannot weep; for all my body's moisture\nScarce serves to quench my furnace-burning heart:\nNor can my tongue unload my heart's great burthen;\nFor selfsame wind that I should speak withal\nIs kindling coals that fires all my breast,\nAnd burns me up with flames that tears would quench.\nTo weep is to make less the depth of grief:\nTears then for babes; blows and revenge for me\nRichard, I bear thy name; I'll venge thy death,\nOr die renowned by attempting it.


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Nay, if thou be that princely eagle's bird,\nShow thy descent by gazing 'gainst the sun:\nFor chair and dukedom, throne and kingdom say;\nEither that is thine, or else thou wert not his.


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Great Lord of Warwick, if we should recount\nOur baleful news, and at each word's deliverance\nStab poniards in our flesh till all were told,\nThe words would add more anguish than the wounds.\nO valiant lord, the Duke of York is slain!


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O Warwick, Warwick! that Plantagenet,\nWhich held three dearly as his soul's redemption,\nIs by the stern Lord Clifford done to death.


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Ten days ago I drown'd these news in tears;\nAnd now, to add more measure to your woes,\nI come to tell you things sith then befall'n.\nAfter the bloody fray at Wakefield fought,\nWhere your brave father breathed his latest gasp,\nTidings, as swiftly as the posts could run,\nWere brought me of your loss and his depart.\nI, then in London keeper of the king,\nMuster'd my soldiers, gather'd flocks of friends,\nAnd very well appointed, as I thought,\nMarch'd toward Saint Alban's to intercept the queen,\nBearing the king in my behalf along;\nFor by my scouts I was advertised\nThat she was coming with a full intent\nTo dash our late decree in parliament\nTouching King Henry's oath and your succession.\nShort tale to make, we at Saint Alban's met\nOur battles join'd, and both sides fiercely fought:\nBut whether 'twas the coldness of the king,\nWho look'd full gently on his warlike queen,\nThat robb'd my soldiers of their heated spleen;\nOr whether 'twas report of her success;\nOr more than common fear of Clifford's rigour,\nWho thunders to his captives blood and death,\nI cannot judge: but to conclude with truth,\nTheir weapons like to lightning came and went;\nOur soldiers', like the night-owl's lazy flight,\nOr like an idle thresher with a flail,\nFell gently down, as if they struck their friends.\nI cheer'd them up with justice of our cause,\nWith promise of high pay and great rewards:\nBut all in vain; they had no heart to fight,\nAnd we in them no hope to win the day;\nSo that we fled; the king unto the queen;\nLord George your brother, Norfolk and myself,\nIn haste, post-haste, are come to join with you:\nFor in the marches here we heard you were,\nMaking another head to fight again.


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Some six miles off the duke is with the soldiers;\nAnd for your brother, he was lately sent\nFrom your kind aunt, Duchess of Burgundy,\nWith aid of soldiers to this needful war.


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'Twas odds, belike, when valiant Warwick fled:\nOft have I heard his praises in pursuit,\nBut ne'er till now his scandal of retire.


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Nor now my scandal, Richard, dost thou hear;\nFor thou shalt know this strong right hand of mine\nCan pluck the diadem from faint Henry's head,\nAnd wring the awful sceptre from his fist,\nWere he as famous and as bold in war\nAs he is famed for mildness, peace, and prayer.


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I know it well, Lord Warwick; blame me not:\n'Tis love I bear thy glories makes me speak.\nBut in this troublous time what's to be done?\nShall we go throw away our coats of steel,\nAnd wrap our bodies in black mourning gowns,\nNumbering our Ave-Maries with our beads?\nOr shall we on the helmets of our foes\nTell our devotion with revengeful arms?\nIf for the last, say ay, and to it, lords.


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Why, therefore Warwick came to seek you out;\nAnd therefore comes my brother Montague.\nAttend me, lords. The proud insulting queen,\nWith Clifford and the haught Northumberland,\nAnd of their feather many more proud birds,\nHave wrought the easy-melting king like wax.\nHe swore consent to your succession,\nHis oath enrolled in the parliament;\nAnd now to London all the crew are gone,\nTo frustrate both his oath and what beside\nMay make against the house of Lancaster.\nTheir power, I think, is thirty thousand strong:\nNow, if the help of Norfolk and myself,\nWith all the friends that thou, brave Earl of March,\nAmongst the loving Welshmen canst procure,\nWill but amount to five and twenty thousand,\nWhy, Via! to London will we march amain,\nAnd once again bestride our foaming steeds,\nAnd once again cry 'Charge upon our foes!'\nBut never once again turn back and fly.


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Ay, now methinks I hear great Warwick speak:\nNe'er may he live to see a sunshine day,\nThat cries 'Retire,' if Warwick bid him stay.


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Lord Warwick, on thy shoulder will I lean;\nAnd when thou fail'st--as God forbid the hour!--\nMust Edward fall, which peril heaven forfend!


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No longer Earl of March, but Duke of York:\nThe next degree is England's royal throne;\nFor King of England shalt thou be proclaim'd\nIn every borough as we pass along;\nAnd he that throws not up his cap for joy\nShall for the fault make forfeit of his head.\nKing Edward, valiant Richard, Montague,\nStay we no longer, dreaming of renown,\nBut sound the trumpets, and about our task.


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Then, Clifford, were thy heart as hard as steel,\nAs thou hast shown it flinty by thy deeds,\nI come to pierce it, or to give thee mine.


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The Duke of Norfolk sends you word by me,\nThe queen is coming with a puissant host;\nAnd craves your company for speedy counsel.


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[Exeunt]\n[Flourish. Enter KING HENRY VI, QUEEN MARGARET,]\nPRINCE EDWARD, CLIFFORD, and NORTHUMBERLAND, with\ndrum and trumpets]


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Welcome, my lord, to this brave town of York.\nYonder's the head of that arch-enemy\nThat sought to be encompass'd with your crown:\nDoth not the object cheer your heart, my lord?


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Ay, as the rocks cheer them that fear their wreck:\nTo see this sight, it irks my very soul.\nWithhold revenge, dear God! 'tis not my fault,\nNor wittingly have I infringed my vow.


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My gracious liege, this too much lenity\nAnd harmful pity must be laid aside.\nTo whom do lions cast their gentle looks?\nNot to the beast that would usurp their den.\nWhose hand is that the forest bear doth lick?\nNot his that spoils her young before her face.\nWho 'scapes the lurking serpent's mortal sting?\nNot he that sets his foot upon her back.\nThe smallest worm will turn being trodden on,\nAnd doves will peck in safeguard of their brood.\nAmbitious York doth level at thy crown,\nThou smiling while he knit his angry brows:\nHe, but a duke, would have his son a king,\nAnd raise his issue, like a loving sire;\nThou, being a king, blest with a goodly son,\nDidst yield consent to disinherit him,\nWhich argued thee a most unloving father.\nUnreasonable creatures feed their young;\nAnd though man's face be fearful to their eyes,\nYet, in protection of their tender ones,\nWho hath not seen them, even with those wings\nWhich sometime they have used with fearful flight,\nMake war with him that climb'd unto their nest,\nOffer their own lives in their young's defence?\nFor shame, my liege, make them your precedent!\nWere it not pity that this goodly boy\nShould lose his birthright by his father's fault,\nAnd long hereafter say unto his child,\n'What my great-grandfather and his grandsire got\nMy careless father fondly gave away'?\nAh, what a shame were this! Look on the boy;\nAnd let his manly face, which promiseth\nSuccessful fortune, steel thy melting heart\nTo hold thine own and leave thine own with him.


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Full well hath Clifford play'd the orator,\nInferring arguments of mighty force.\nBut, Clifford, tell me, didst thou never hear\nThat things ill-got had ever bad success?\nAnd happy always was it for that son\nWhose father for his hoarding went to hell?\nI'll leave my son my virtuous deeds behind;\nAnd would my father had left me no more!\nFor all the rest is held at such a rate\nAs brings a thousand-fold more care to keep\nThan in possession and jot of pleasure.\nAh, cousin York! would thy best friends did know\nHow it doth grieve me that thy head is here!


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My lord, cheer up your spirits: our foes are nigh,\nAnd this soft courage makes your followers faint.\nYou promised knighthood to our forward son:\nUnsheathe your sword, and dub him presently.\nEdward, kneel down.


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My gracious father, by your kingly leave,\nI'll draw it as apparent to the crown,\nAnd in that quarrel use it to the death.


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Royal commanders, be in readiness:\nFor with a band of thirty thousand men\nComes Warwick, backing of the Duke of York;\nAnd in the towns, as they do march along,\nProclaims him king, and many fly to him:\nDarraign your battle, for they are at hand.


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My royal father, cheer these noble lords\nAnd hearten those that fight in your defence:\nUnsheathe your sword, good father; cry 'Saint George!'\n[March. Enter EDWARD, GEORGE, RICHARD, WARWICK,]\nNORFOLK, MONTAGUE, and Soldiers]


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Now, perjured Henry! wilt thou kneel for grace,\nAnd set thy diadem upon my head;\nOr bide the mortal fortune of the field?


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Go, rate thy minions, proud insulting boy!\nBecomes it thee to be thus bold in terms\nBefore thy sovereign and thy lawful king?


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I am his king, and he should bow his knee;\nI was adopted heir by his consent:\nSince when, his oath is broke; for, as I hear,\nYou, that are king, though he do wear the crown,\nHave caused him, by new act of parliament,\nTo blot out me, and put his own son in.


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Why, how now, long-tongued Warwick! dare you speak?\nWhen you and I met at Saint Alban's last,\nYour legs did better service than your hands.


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Northumberland, I hold thee reverently.\nBreak off the parley; for scarce I can refrain\nThe execution of my big-swoln heart\nUpon that Clifford, that cruel child-killer.


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Ay, like a dastard and a treacherous coward,\nAs thou didst kill our tender brother Rutland;\nBut ere sunset I'll make thee curse the deed.


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Then, executioner, unsheathe thy sword:\nBy him that made us all, I am resolved\nthat Clifford's manhood lies upon his tongue.


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Say, Henry, shall I have my right, or no?\nA thousand men have broke their fasts to-day,\nThat ne'er shall dine unless thou yield the crown.


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But thou art neither like thy sire nor dam;\nBut like a foul mis-shapen stigmatic,\nMark'd by the destinies to be avoided,\nAs venom toads, or lizards' dreadful stings.


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Iron of Naples hid with English gilt,\nWhose father bears the title of a king,--\nAs if a channel should be call'd the sea,--\nShamest thou not, knowing whence thou art extraught,\nTo let thy tongue detect thy base-born heart?


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A wisp of straw were worth a thousand crowns,\nTo make this shameless callet know herself.\nHelen of Greece was fairer far than thou,\nAlthough thy husband may be Menelaus;\nAnd ne'er was Agamemnon's brother wrong'd\nBy that false woman, as this king by thee.\nHis father revell'd in the heart of France,\nAnd tamed the king, and made the dauphin stoop;\nAnd had he match'd according to his state,\nHe might have kept that glory to this day;\nBut when he took a beggar to his bed,\nAnd graced thy poor sire with his bridal-day,\nEven then that sunshine brew'd a shower for him,\nThat wash'd his father's fortunes forth of France,\nAnd heap'd sedition on his crown at home.\nFor what hath broach'd this tumult but thy pride?\nHadst thou been meek, our title still had slept;\nAnd we, in pity of the gentle king,\nHad slipp'd our claim until another age.


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But when we saw our sunshine made thy spring,\nAnd that thy summer bred us no increase,\nWe set the axe to thy usurping root;\nAnd though the edge hath something hit ourselves,\nYet, know thou, since we have begun to strike,\nWe'll never leave till we have hewn thee down,\nOr bathed thy growing with our heated bloods.


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And, in this resolution, I defy thee;\nNot willing any longer conference,\nSince thou deniest the gentle king to speak.\nSound trumpets! let our bloody colours wave!\nAnd either victory, or else a grave.


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Forspent with toil, as runners with a race,\nI lay me down a little while to breathe;\nFor strokes received, and many blows repaid,\nHave robb'd my strong-knit sinews of their strength,\nAnd spite of spite needs must I rest awhile.


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Smile, gentle heaven! or strike, ungentle death!\nFor this world frowns, and Edward's sun is clouded.


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Our hap is loss, our hope but sad despair;\nOur ranks are broke, and ruin follows us:\nWhat counsel give you? whither shall we fly?


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Ah, Warwick, why hast thou withdrawn thyself?\nThy brother's blood the thirsty earth hath drunk,\nBroach'd with the steely point of Clifford's lance;\nAnd in the very pangs of death he cried,\nLike to a dismal clangour heard from far,\n'Warwick, revenge! brother, revenge my death!'\nSo, underneath the belly of their steeds,\nThat stain'd their fetlocks in his smoking blood,\nThe noble gentleman gave up the ghost.


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Then let the earth be drunken with our blood:\nI'll kill my horse, because I will not fly.\nWhy stand we like soft-hearted women here,\nWailing our losses, whiles the foe doth rage;\nAnd look upon, as if the tragedy\nWere play'd in jest by counterfeiting actors?\nHere on my knee I vow to God above,\nI'll never pause again, never stand still,\nTill either death hath closed these eyes of mine\nOr fortune given me measure of revenge.


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O Warwick, I do bend my knee with thine;\nAnd in this vow do chain my soul to thine!\nAnd, ere my knee rise from the earth's cold face,\nI throw my hands, mine eyes, my heart to thee,\nThou setter up and plucker down of kings,\nBeseeching thee, if with they will it stands\nThat to my foes this body must be prey,\nYet that thy brazen gates of heaven may ope,\nAnd give sweet passage to my sinful soul!\nNow, lords, take leave until we meet again,\nWhere'er it be, in heaven or in earth.


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Brother, give me thy hand; and, gentle Warwick,\nLet me embrace thee in my weary arms:\nI, that did never weep, now melt with woe\nThat winter should cut off our spring-time so.


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Yet let us all together to our troops,\nAnd give them leave to fly that will not stay;\nAnd call them pillars that will stand to us;\nAnd, if we thrive, promise them such rewards\nAs victors wear at the Olympian games:\nThis may plant courage in their quailing breasts;\nFor yet is hope of life and victory.\nForslow no longer, make we hence amain.


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Now, Clifford, I have singled thee alone:\nSuppose this arm is for the Duke of York,\nAnd this for Rutland; both bound to revenge,\nWert thou environ'd with a brazen wall.


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Now, Richard, I am with thee here alone:\nThis is the hand that stabb'd thy father York;\nAnd this the hand that slew thy brother Rutland;\nAnd here's the heart that triumphs in their death\nAnd cheers these hands that slew thy sire and brother\nTo execute the like upon thyself;\nAnd so, have at thee!


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This battle fares like to the morning's war,\nWhen dying clouds contend with growing light,\nWhat time the shepherd, blowing of his nails,\nCan neither call it perfect day nor night.\nNow sways it this way, like a mighty sea\nForced by the tide to combat with the wind;\nNow sways it that way, like the selfsame sea\nForced to retire by fury of the wind:\nSometime the flood prevails, and then the wind;\nNow one the better, then another best;\nBoth tugging to be victors, breast to breast,\nYet neither conqueror nor conquered:\nSo is the equal of this fell war.\nHere on this molehill will I sit me down.\nTo whom God will, there be the victory!\nFor Margaret my queen, and Clifford too,\nHave chid me from the battle; swearing both\nThey prosper best of all when I am thence.\nWould I were dead! if God's good will were so;\nFor what is in this world but grief and woe?\nO God! methinks it were a happy life,\nTo be no better than a homely swain;\nTo sit upon a hill, as I do now,\nTo carve out dials quaintly, point by point,\nThereby to see the minutes how they run,\nHow many make the hour full complete;\nHow many hours bring about the day;\nHow many days will finish up the year;\nHow many years a mortal man may live.\nWhen this is known, then to divide the times:\nSo many hours must I tend my flock;\nSo many hours must I take my rest;\nSo many hours must I contemplate;\nSo many hours must I sport myself;\nSo many days my ewes have been with young;\nSo many weeks ere the poor fools will ean:\nSo many years ere I shall shear the fleece:\nSo minutes, hours, days, months, and years,\nPass'd over to the end they were created,\nWould bring white hairs unto a quiet grave.\nAh, what a life were this! how sweet! how lovely!\nGives not the hawthorn-bush a sweeter shade\nTo shepherds looking on their silly sheep,\nThan doth a rich embroider'd canopy\nTo kings that fear their subjects' treachery?\nO, yes, it doth; a thousand-fold it doth.\nAnd to conclude, the shepherd's homely curds,\nHis cold thin drink out of his leather bottle.\nHis wonted sleep under a fresh tree's shade,\nAll which secure and sweetly he enjoys,\nIs far beyond a prince's delicates,\nHis viands sparkling in a golden cup,\nHis body couched in a curious bed,\nWhen care, mistrust, and treason waits on him.\n[Alarum. Enter a Son that has killed his father,]\ndragging in the dead body]


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Ill blows the wind that profits nobody.\nThis man, whom hand to hand I slew in fight,\nMay be possessed with some store of crowns;\nAnd I, that haply take them from him now,\nMay yet ere night yield both my life and them\nTo some man else, as this dead man doth me.\nWho's this? O God! it is my father's face,\nWhom in this conflict I unwares have kill'd.\nO heavy times, begetting such events!\nFrom London by the king was I press'd forth;\nMy father, being the Earl of Warwick's man,\nCame on the part of York, press'd by his master;\nAnd I, who at his hands received my life, him\nHave by my hands of life bereaved him.\nPardon me, God, I knew not what I did!\nAnd pardon, father, for I knew not thee!\nMy tears shall wipe away these bloody marks;\nAnd no more words till they have flow'd their fill.


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O piteous spectacle! O bloody times!\nWhiles lions war and battle for their dens,\nPoor harmless lambs abide their enmity.\nWeep, wretched man, I'll aid thee tear for tear;\nAnd let our hearts and eyes, like civil war,\nBe blind with tears, and break o'ercharged with grief.


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Thou that so stoutly hast resisted me,\nGive me thy gold, if thou hast any gold:\nFor I have bought it with an hundred blows.\nBut let me see: is this our foeman's face?\nAh, no, no, no, it is mine only son!\nAh, boy, if any life be left in thee,\nThrow up thine eye! see, see what showers arise,\nBlown with the windy tempest of my heart,\nUpon thy words, that kill mine eye and heart!\nO, pity, God, this miserable age!\nWhat stratagems, how fell, how butcherly,\nErroneous, mutinous and unnatural,\nThis deadly quarrel daily doth beget!\nO boy, thy father gave thee life too soon,\nAnd hath bereft thee of thy life too late!


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Woe above woe! grief more than common grief!\nO that my death would stay these ruthful deeds!\nO pity, pity, gentle heaven, pity!\nThe red rose and the white are on his face,\nThe fatal colours of our striving houses:\nThe one his purple blood right well resembles;\nThe other his pale cheeks, methinks, presenteth:\nWither one rose, and let the other flourish;\nIf you contend, a thousand lives must wither.


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These arms of mine shall be thy winding-sheet;\nMy heart, sweet boy, shall be thy sepulchre,\nFor from my heart thine image ne'er shall go;\nMy sighing breast shall be thy funeral bell;\nAnd so obsequious will thy father be,\nEven for the loss of thee, having no more,\nAs Priam was for all his valiant sons.\nI'll bear thee hence; and let them fight that will,\nFor I have murdered where I should not kill.


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Sad-hearted men, much overgone with care,\nHere sits a king more woful than you are.\n[Alarums: excursions. Enter QUEEN MARGARET, PRINCE]\nEDWARD, and EXETER]


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Fly, father, fly! for all your friends are fled,\nAnd Warwick rages like a chafed bull:\nAway! for death doth hold us in pursuit.


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Mount you, my lord; towards Berwick post amain:\nEdward and Richard, like a brace of greyhounds\nHaving the fearful flying hare in sight,\nWith fiery eyes sparkling for very wrath,\nAnd bloody steel grasp'd in their ireful hands,\nAre at our backs; and therefore hence amain.


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Away! for vengeance comes along with them:\nNay, stay not to expostulate, make speed;\nOr else come after: I'll away before.


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Nay, take me with thee, good sweet Exeter:\nNot that I fear to stay, but love to go\nWhither the queen intends. Forward; away!


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Here burns my candle out; ay, here it dies,\nWhich, whiles it lasted, gave King Henry light.\nO Lancaster, I fear thy overthrow\nMore than my body's parting with my soul!\nMy love and fear glued many friends to thee;\nAnd, now I fall, thy tough commixture melts.\nImpairing Henry, strengthening misproud York,\nThe common people swarm like summer flies;\nAnd whither fly the gnats but to the sun?\nAnd who shines now but Henry's enemies?\nO Phoebus, hadst thou never given consent\nThat Phaethon should cheque thy fiery steeds,\nThy burning car never had scorch'd the earth!\nAnd, Henry, hadst thou sway'd as kings should do,\nOr as thy father and his father did,\nGiving no ground unto the house of York,\nThey never then had sprung like summer flies;\nI and ten thousand in this luckless realm\nHad left no mourning widows for our death;\nAnd thou this day hadst kept thy chair in peace.\nFor what doth cherish weeds but gentle air?\nAnd what makes robbers bold but too much lenity?\nBootless are plaints, and cureless are my wounds;\nNo way to fly, nor strength to hold out flight:\nThe foe is merciless, and will not pity;\nFor at their hands I have deserved no pity.\nThe air hath got into my deadly wounds,\nAnd much effuse of blood doth make me faint.\nCome, York and Richard, Warwick and the rest;\nI stabb'd your fathers' bosoms, split my breast.\n[He faints]\n[Alarum and retreat. Enter EDWARD, GEORGE, RICHARD,]\nMONTAGUE, WARWICK, and Soldiers]


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Now breathe we, lords: good fortune bids us pause,\nAnd smooth the frowns of war with peaceful looks.\nSome troops pursue the bloody-minded queen,\nThat led calm Henry, though he were a king,\nAs doth a sail, fill'd with a fretting gust,\nCommand an argosy to stem the waves.\nBut think you, lords, that Clifford fled with them?


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No, 'tis impossible he should escape,\nFor, though before his face I speak the words\nYour brother Richard mark'd him for the grave:\nAnd wheresoe'er he is, he's surely dead.


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Revoke that doom of mercy, for 'tis Clifford;\nWho not contented that he lopp'd the branch\nIn hewing Rutland when his leaves put forth,\nBut set his murdering knife unto the root\nFrom whence that tender spray did sweetly spring,\nI mean our princely father, Duke of York.


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From off the gates of York fetch down the head,\nYour father's head, which Clifford placed there;\nInstead whereof let this supply the room:\nMeasure for measure must be answered.


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Bring forth that fatal screech-owl to our house,\nThat nothing sung but death to us and ours:\nNow death shall stop his dismal threatening sound,\nAnd his ill-boding tongue no more shall speak.


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I think his understanding is bereft.\nSpeak, Clifford, dost thou know who speaks to thee?\nDark cloudy death o'ershades his beams of life,\nAnd he nor sees nor hears us what we say.


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O, would he did! and so perhaps he doth:\n'Tis but his policy to counterfeit,\nBecause he would avoid such bitter taunts\nWhich in the time of death he gave our father.


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What, not an oath? nay, then the world goes hard\nWhen Clifford cannot spare his friends an oath.\nI know by that he's dead; and, by my soul,\nIf this right hand would buy two hour's life,\nThat I in all despite might rail at him,\nThis hand should chop it off, and with the\nissuing blood\nStifle the villain whose unstanched thirst\nYork and young Rutland could not satisfy.


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Ay, but he's dead: off with the traitor's head,\nAnd rear it in the place your father's stands.\nAnd now to London with triumphant march,\nThere to be crowned England's royal king:\nFrom whence shall Warwick cut the sea to France,\nAnd ask the Lady Bona for thy queen:\nSo shalt thou sinew both these lands together;\nAnd, having France thy friend, thou shalt not dread\nThe scatter'd foe that hopes to rise again;\nFor though they cannot greatly sting to hurt,\nYet look to have them buzz to offend thine ears.\nFirst will I see the coronation;\nAnd then to Brittany I'll cross the sea,\nTo effect this marriage, so it please my lord.


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Even as thou wilt, sweet Warwick, let it be;\nFor in thy shoulder do I build my seat,\nAnd never will I undertake the thing\nWherein thy counsel and consent is wanting.\nRichard, I will create thee Duke of Gloucester,\nAnd George, of Clarence: Warwick, as ourself,\nShall do and undo as him pleaseth best.


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Tut, that's a foolish observation:\nRichard, be Duke of Gloucester. Now to London,\nTo see these honours in possession.


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Under this thick-grown brake we'll shroud ourselves;\nFor through this laund anon the deer will come;\nAnd in this covert will we make our stand,\nCulling the principal of all the deer.


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That cannot be; the noise of thy cross-bow\nWill scare the herd, and so my shoot is lost.\nHere stand we both, and aim we at the best:\nAnd, for the time shall not seem tedious,\nI'll tell thee what befell me on a day\nIn this self-place where now we mean to stand.


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From Scotland am I stol'n, even of pure love,\nTo greet mine own land with my wishful sight.\nNo, Harry, Harry, 'tis no land of thine;\nThy place is fill'd, thy sceptre wrung from thee,\nThy balm wash'd off wherewith thou wast anointed:\nNo bending knee will call thee Caesar now,\nNo humble suitors press to speak for right,\nNo, not a man comes for redress of thee;\nFor how can I help them, and not myself?


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My queen and son are gone to France for aid;\nAnd, as I hear, the great commanding Warwick\nIs thither gone, to crave the French king's sister\nTo wife for Edward: if this news be true,\nPoor queen and son, your labour is but lost;\nFor Warwick is a subtle orator,\nAnd Lewis a prince soon won with moving words.\nBy this account then Margaret may win him;\nFor she's a woman to be pitied much:\nHer sighs will make a battery in his breast;\nHer tears will pierce into a marble heart;\nThe tiger will be mild whiles she doth mourn;\nAnd Nero will be tainted with remorse,\nTo hear and see her plaints, her brinish tears.\nAy, but she's come to beg, Warwick to give;\nShe, on his left side, craving aid for Henry,\nHe, on his right, asking a wife for Edward.\nShe weeps, and says her Henry is deposed;\nHe smiles, and says his Edward is install'd;\nThat she, poor wretch, for grief can speak no more;\nWhiles Warwick tells his title, smooths the wrong,\nInferreth arguments of mighty strength,\nAnd in conclusion wins the king from her,\nWith promise of his sister, and what else,\nTo strengthen and support King Edward's place.\nO Margaret, thus 'twill be; and thou, poor soul,\nArt then forsaken, as thou went'st forlorn!


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More than I seem, and less than I was born to:\nA man at least, for less I should not be;\nAnd men may talk of kings, and why not I?


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My crown is in my heart, not on my head;\nNot decked with diamonds and Indian stones,\nNor to be seen: my crown is called content:\nA crown it is that seldom kings enjoy.


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Well, if you be a king crown'd with content,\nYour crown content and you must be contented\nTo go along with us; for as we think,\nYou are the king King Edward hath deposed;\nAnd we his subjects sworn in all allegiance\nWill apprehend you as his enemy.


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I was anointed king at nine months old;\nMy father and my grandfather were kings,\nAnd you were sworn true subjects unto me:\nAnd tell me, then, have you not broke your oaths?


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Why, am I dead? do I not breathe a man?\nAh, simple men, you know not what you swear!\nLook, as I blow this feather from my face,\nAnd as the air blows it to me again,\nObeying with my wind when I do blow,\nAnd yielding to another when it blows,\nCommanded always by the greater gust;\nSuch is the lightness of you common men.\nBut do not break your oaths; for of that sin\nMy mild entreaty shall not make you guilty.\nGo where you will, the king shall be commanded;\nAnd be you kings, command, and I'll obey.


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In God's name, lead; your king's name be obey'd:\nAnd what God will, that let your king perform;\nAnd what he will, I humbly yield unto.


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Brother of Gloucester, at Saint Alban's field\nThis lady's husband, Sir Richard Grey, was slain,\nHis lands then seized on by the conqueror:\nHer suit is now to repossess those lands;\nWhich we in justice cannot well deny,\nBecause in quarrel of the house of York\nThe worthy gentleman did lose his life.


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[Aside to CLARENCE] Yea, is it so?\nI see the lady hath a thing to grant,\nBefore the king will grant her humble suit.


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Right gracious lord, I cannot brook delay:\nMay it please your highness to resolve me now;\nAnd what your pleasure is, shall satisfy me.


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[Aside to CLARENCE] Ay, widow? then I'll warrant\nyou all your lands,\nAn if what pleases him shall pleasure you.\nFight closer, or, good faith, you'll catch a blow.


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[Aside to CLARENCE] Ay, good leave have you; for\nyou will have leave,\nTill youth take leave and leave you to the crutch.


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Herein your highness wrongs both them and me.\nBut, mighty lord, this merry inclination\nAccords not with the sadness of my suit:\nPlease you dismiss me either with 'ay' or 'no.'


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[Aside] Her looks do argue her replete with modesty;\nHer words do show her wit incomparable;\nAll her perfections challenge sovereignty:\nOne way or other, she is for a king;\nAnd she shall be my love, or else my queen.--\nSay that King Edward take thee for his queen?


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'Tis better said than done, my gracious lord:\nI am a subject fit to jest withal,\nBut far unfit to be a sovereign.


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Sweet widow, by my state I swear to thee\nI speak no more than what my soul intends;\nAnd that is, to enjoy thee for my love.


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And that is more than I will yield unto:\nI know I am too mean to be your queen,\nAnd yet too good to be your concubine.


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No more than when my daughters call thee mother.\nThou art a widow, and thou hast some children;\nAnd, by God's mother, I, being but a bachelor,\nHave other some: why, 'tis a happy thing\nTo be the father unto many sons.\nAnswer no more, for thou shalt be my queen.


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See that he be convey'd unto the Tower:\nAnd go we, brothers, to the man that took him,\nTo question of his apprehension.\nWidow, go you along. Lords, use her honourably.


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Ay, Edward will use women honourably.\nWould he were wasted, marrow, bones and all,\nThat from his loins no hopeful branch may spring,\nTo cross me from the golden time I look for!\nAnd yet, between my soul's desire and me--\nThe lustful Edward's title buried--\nIs Clarence, Henry, and his son young Edward,\nAnd all the unlook'd for issue of their bodies,\nTo take their rooms, ere I can place myself:\nA cold premeditation for my purpose!\nWhy, then, I do but dream on sovereignty;\nLike one that stands upon a promontory,\nAnd spies a far-off shore where he would tread,\nWishing his foot were equal with his eye,\nAnd chides the sea that sunders him from thence,\nSaying, he'll lade it dry to have his way:\nSo do I wish the crown, being so far off;\nAnd so I chide the means that keeps me from it;\nAnd so I say, I'll cut the causes off,\nFlattering me with impossibilities.\nMy eye's too quick, my heart o'erweens too much,\nUnless my hand and strength could equal them.\nWell, say there is no kingdom then for Richard;\nWhat other pleasure can the world afford?\nI'll make my heaven in a lady's lap,\nAnd deck my body in gay ornaments,\nAnd witch sweet ladies with my words and looks.\nO miserable thought! and more unlikely\nThan to accomplish twenty golden crowns!\nWhy, love forswore me in my mother's womb:\nAnd, for I should not deal in her soft laws,\nShe did corrupt frail nature with some bribe,\nTo shrink mine arm up like a wither'd shrub;\nTo make an envious mountain on my back,\nWhere sits deformity to mock my body;\nTo shape my legs of an unequal size;\nTo disproportion me in every part,\nLike to a chaos, or an unlick'd bear-whelp\nThat carries no impression like the dam.\nAnd am I then a man to be beloved?\nO monstrous fault, to harbour such a thought!\nThen, since this earth affords no joy to me,\nBut to command, to cheque, to o'erbear such\nAs are of better person than myself,\nI'll make my heaven to dream upon the crown,\nAnd, whiles I live, to account this world but hell,\nUntil my mis-shaped trunk that bears this head\nBe round impaled with a glorious crown.\nAnd yet I know not how to get the crown,\nFor many lives stand between me and home:\nAnd I,--like one lost in a thorny wood,\nThat rends the thorns and is rent with the thorns,\nSeeking a way and straying from the way;\nNot knowing how to find the open air,\nBut toiling desperately to find it out,--\nTorment myself to catch the English crown:\nAnd from that torment I will free myself,\nOr hew my way out with a bloody axe.\nWhy, I can smile, and murder whiles I smile,\nAnd cry 'Content' to that which grieves my heart,\nAnd wet my cheeks with artificial tears,\nAnd frame my face to all occasions.\nI'll drown more sailors than the mermaid shall;\nI'll slay more gazers than the basilisk;\nI'll play the orator as well as Nestor,\nDeceive more slily than Ulysses could,\nAnd, like a Sinon, take another Troy.\nI can add colours to the chameleon,\nChange shapes with Proteus for advantages,\nAnd set the murderous Machiavel to school.\nCan I do this, and cannot get a crown?\nTut, were it farther off, I'll pluck it down.


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[Exit]\n[Flourish. Enter KING LEWIS XI, his sister BONA,]\nhis Admiral, called BOURBON, PRINCE EDWARD, QUEEN\nMARGARET, and OXFORD. KING LEWIS XI sits, and\nriseth up again]


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Fair Queen of England, worthy Margaret,\nSit down with us: it ill befits thy state\nAnd birth, that thou shouldst stand while Lewis doth sit.


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No, mighty King of France: now Margaret\nMust strike her sail and learn awhile to serve\nWhere kings command. I was, I must confess,\nGreat Albion's queen in former golden days:\nBut now mischance hath trod my title down,\nAnd with dishonour laid me on the ground;\nWhere I must take like seat unto my fortune,\nAnd to my humble seat conform myself.


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From such a cause as fills mine eyes with tears\nAnd stops my tongue, while heart is drown'd in cares.


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Whate'er it be, be thou still like thyself,\nAnd sit thee by our side:\n[Seats her by him]\nYield not thy neck\nTo fortune's yoke, but let thy dauntless mind\nStill ride in triumph over all mischance.\nBe plain, Queen Margaret, and tell thy grief;\nIt shall be eased, if France can yield relief.


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Those gracious words revive my drooping thoughts\nAnd give my tongue-tied sorrows leave to speak.\nNow, therefore, be it known to noble Lewis,\nThat Henry, sole possessor of my love,\nIs of a king become a banish'd man,\nAnd forced to live in Scotland a forlorn;\nWhile proud ambitious Edward Duke of York\nUsurps the regal title and the seat\nOf England's true-anointed lawful king.\nThis is the cause that I, poor Margaret,\nWith this my son, Prince Edward, Henry's heir,\nAm come to crave thy just and lawful aid;\nAnd if thou fail us, all our hope is done:\nScotland hath will to help, but cannot help;\nOur people and our peers are both misled,\nOur treasures seized, our soldiers put to flight,\nAnd, as thou seest, ourselves in heavy plight.


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From worthy Edward, King of Albion,\nMy lord and sovereign, and thy vowed friend,\nI come, in kindness and unfeigned love,\nFirst, to do greetings to thy royal person;\nAnd then to crave a league of amity;\nAnd lastly, to confirm that amity\nWith a nuptial knot, if thou vouchsafe to grant\nThat virtuous Lady Bona, thy fair sister,\nTo England's king in lawful marriage.


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[To BONA] And, gracious madam, in our king's behalf,\nI am commanded, with your leave and favour,\nHumbly to kiss your hand, and with my tongue\nTo tell the passion of my sovereign's heart;\nWhere fame, late entering at his heedful ears,\nHath placed thy beauty's image and thy virtue.


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King Lewis and Lady Bona, hear me speak,\nBefore you answer Warwick. His demand\nSprings not from Edward's well-meant honest love,\nBut from deceit bred by necessity;\nFor how can tyrants safely govern home,\nUnless abroad they purchase great alliance?\nTo prove him tyrant this reason may suffice,\nThat Henry liveth still: but were he dead,\nYet here Prince Edward stands, King Henry's son.\nLook, therefore, Lewis, that by this league and marriage\nThou draw not on thy danger and dishonour;\nFor though usurpers sway the rule awhile,\nYet heavens are just, and time suppresseth wrongs.


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Then Warwick disannuls great John of Gaunt,\nWhich did subdue the greatest part of Spain;\nAnd, after John of Gaunt, Henry the Fourth,\nWhose wisdom was a mirror to the wisest;\nAnd, after that wise prince, Henry the Fifth,\nWho by his prowess conquered all France:\nFrom these our Henry lineally descends.


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Oxford, how haps it, in this smooth discourse,\nYou told not how Henry the Sixth hath lost\nAll that which Henry Fifth had gotten?\nMethinks these peers of France should smile at that.\nBut for the rest, you tell a pedigree\nOf threescore and two years; a silly time\nTo make prescription for a kingdom's worth.


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Why, Warwick, canst thou speak against thy liege,\nWhom thou obeyed'st thirty and six years,\nAnd not bewray thy treason with a blush?


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Can Oxford, that did ever fence the right,\nNow buckler falsehood with a pedigree?\nFor shame! leave Henry, and call Edward king.


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Call him my king by whose injurious doom\nMy elder brother, the Lord Aubrey Vere,\nWas done to death? and more than so, my father,\nEven in the downfall of his mellow'd years,\nWhen nature brought him to the door of death?\nNo, Warwick, no; while life upholds this arm,\nThis arm upholds the house of Lancaster.


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Queen Margaret, Prince Edward, and Oxford,\nVouchsafe, at our request, to stand aside,\nWhile I use further conference with Warwick.


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Now Warwick, tell me, even upon thy conscience,\nIs Edward your true king? for I were loath\nTo link with him that were not lawful chosen.


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Then further, all dissembling set aside,\nTell me for truth the measure of his love\nUnto our sister Bona.


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Such it seems\nAs may beseem a monarch like himself.\nMyself have often heard him say and swear\nThat this his love was an eternal plant,\nWhereof the root was fix'd in virtue's ground,\nThe leaves and fruit maintain'd with beauty's sun,\nExempt from envy, but not from disdain,\nUnless the Lady Bona quit his pain.


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Your grant, or your denial, shall be mine:\n[To WARWICK]\nYet I confess that often ere this day,\nWhen I have heard your king's desert recounted,\nMine ear hath tempted judgment to desire.


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Then, Warwick, thus: our sister shall be Edward's;\nAnd now forthwith shall articles be drawn\nTouching the jointure that your king must make,\nWhich with her dowry shall be counterpoised.\nDraw near, Queen Margaret, and be a witness\nThat Bona shall be wife to the English king.


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Deceitful Warwick! it was thy device\nBy this alliance to make void my suit:\nBefore thy coming Lewis was Henry's friend.


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And still is friend to him and Margaret:\nBut if your title to the crown be weak,\nAs may appear by Edward's good success,\nThen 'tis but reason that I be released\nFrom giving aid which late I promised.\nYet shall you have all kindness at my hand\nThat your estate requires and mine can yield.


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Henry now lives in Scotland at his ease,\nWhere having nothing, nothing can he lose.\nAnd as for you yourself, our quondam queen,\nYou have a father able to maintain you;\nAnd better 'twere you troubled him than France.


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Peace, impudent and shameless Warwick, peace,\nProud setter up and puller down of kings!\nI will not hence, till, with my talk and tears,\nBoth full of truth, I make King Lewis behold\nThy sly conveyance and thy lord's false love;\nFor both of you are birds of selfsame feather.


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[To WARWICK] My lord ambassador, these letters are for you,\nSent from your brother, Marquess Montague:\n[To KING LEWIS XI]\nThese from our king unto your majesty:\n[To QUEEN MARGARET]\nAnd, madam, these for you; from whom I know not.


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What! has your king married the Lady Grey!\nAnd now, to soothe your forgery and his,\nSends me a paper to persuade me patience?\nIs this the alliance that he seeks with France?\nDare he presume to scorn us in this manner?


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King Lewis, I here protest, in sight of heaven,\nAnd by the hope I have of heavenly bliss,\nThat I am clear from this misdeed of Edward's,\nNo more my king, for he dishonours me,\nBut most himself, if he could see his shame.\nDid I forget that by the house of York\nMy father came untimely to his death?\nDid I let pass the abuse done to my niece?\nDid I impale him with the regal crown?\nDid I put Henry from his native right?\nAnd am I guerdon'd at the last with shame?\nShame on himself! for my desert is honour:\nAnd to repair my honour lost for him,\nI here renounce him and return to Henry.\nMy noble queen, let former grudges pass,\nAnd henceforth I am thy true servitor:\nI will revenge his wrong to Lady Bona,\nAnd replant Henry in his former state.


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Warwick, these words have turn'd my hate to love;\nAnd I forgive and quite forget old faults,\nAnd joy that thou becomest King Henry's friend.


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So much his friend, ay, his unfeigned friend,\nThat, if King Lewis vouchsafe to furnish us\nWith some few bands of chosen soldiers,\nI'll undertake to land them on our coast\nAnd force the tyrant from his seat by war.\n'Tis not his new-made bride shall succor him:\nAnd as for Clarence, as my letters tell me,\nHe's very likely now to fall from him,\nFor matching more for wanton lust than honour,\nOr than for strength and safety of our country.


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And mine with hers, and thine, and Margaret's.\nTherefore at last I firmly am resolved\nYou shall have aid.


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Then, England's messenger, return in post,\nAnd tell false Edward, thy supposed king,\nThat Lewis of France is sending over masquers\nTo revel it with him and his new bride:\nThou seest what's past, go fear thy king withal.


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Tell him from me that he hath done me wrong,\nAnd therefore I'll uncrown him ere't be long.\nThere's thy reward: be gone.


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But, Warwick,\nThou and Oxford, with five thousand men,\nShall cross the seas, and bid false Edward battle;\nAnd, as occasion serves, this noble queen\nAnd prince shall follow with a fresh supply.\nYet, ere thou go, but answer me one doubt,\nWhat pledge have we of thy firm loyalty?


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This shall assure my constant loyalty,\nThat if our queen and this young prince agree,\nI'll join mine eldest daughter and my joy\nTo him forthwith in holy wedlock bands.


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Yes, I agree, and thank you for your motion.\nSon Edward, she is fair and virtuous,\nTherefore delay not, give thy hand to Warwick;\nAnd, with thy hand, thy faith irrevocable,\nThat only Warwick's daughter shall be thine.


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Why stay we now? These soldiers shall be levied,\nAnd thou, Lord Bourbon, our high admiral,\nShalt waft them over with our royal fleet.\nI long till Edward fall by war's mischance,\nFor mocking marriage with a dame of France.


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I came from Edward as ambassador,\nBut I return his sworn and mortal foe:\nMatter of marriage was the charge he gave me,\nBut dreadful war shall answer his demand.\nHad he none else to make a stale but me?\nThen none but I shall turn his jest to sorrow.\nI was the chief that raised him to the crown,\nAnd I'll be chief to bring him down again:\nNot that I pity Henry's misery,\nBut seek revenge on Edward's mockery.


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Now tell me, brother Clarence, what think you\nOf this new marriage with the Lady Grey?\nHath not our brother made a worthy choice?


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I mind to tell him plainly what I think.\n[Flourish. Enter KING EDWARD IV, attended; QUEEN]\nELIZABETH, PEMBROKE, STAFFORD, HASTINGS, and others]


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As well as Lewis of France, or the Earl of Warwick,\nWhich are so weak of courage and in judgment\nThat they'll take no offence at our abuse.


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Suppose they take offence without a cause,\nThey are but Lewis and Warwick: I am Edward,\nYour king and Warwick's, and must have my will.


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Not I:\nNo, God forbid that I should wish them sever'd\nWhom God hath join'd together; ay, and 'twere pity\nTo sunder them that yoke so well together.


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Setting your scorns and your mislike aside,\nTell me some reason why the Lady Grey\nShould not become my wife and England's queen.\nAnd you too, Somerset and Montague,\nSpeak freely what you think.


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Then this is mine opinion: that King Lewis\nBecomes your enemy, for mocking him\nAbout the marriage of the Lady Bona.


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Yet, to have join'd with France in such alliance\nWould more have strengthen'd this our commonwealth\n'Gainst foreign storms than any home-bred marriage.


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'Tis better using France than trusting France:\nLet us be back'd with God and with the seas\nWhich He hath given for fence impregnable,\nAnd with their helps only defend ourselves;\nIn them and in ourselves our safety lies.


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And yet methinks your grace hath not done well,\nTo give the heir and daughter of Lord Scales\nUnto the brother of your loving bride;\nShe better would have fitted me or Clarence:\nBut in your bride you bury brotherhood.


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Or else you would not have bestow'd the heir\nOf the Lord Bonville on your new wife's son,\nAnd leave your brothers to go speed elsewhere.


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In choosing for yourself, you show'd your judgment,\nWhich being shallow, you give me leave\nTo play the broker in mine own behalf;\nAnd to that end I shortly mind to leave you.


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My lords, before it pleased his majesty\nTo raise my state to title of a queen,\nDo me but right, and you must all confess\nThat I was not ignoble of descent;\nAnd meaner than myself have had like fortune.\nBut as this title honours me and mine,\nSo your dislike, to whom I would be pleasing,\nDoth cloud my joys with danger and with sorrow.


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My love, forbear to fawn upon their frowns:\nWhat danger or what sorrow can befall thee,\nSo long as Edward is thy constant friend,\nAnd their true sovereign, whom they must obey?\nNay, whom they shall obey, and love thee too,\nUnless they seek for hatred at my hands;\nWhich if they do, yet will I keep thee safe,\nAnd they shall feel the vengeance of my wrath.


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My sovereign liege, no letters; and few words,\nBut such as I, without your special pardon,\nDare not relate.


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Go to, we pardon thee: therefore, in brief,\nTell me their words as near as thou canst guess them.\nWhat answer makes King Lewis unto our letters?


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At my depart, these were his very words:\n'Go tell false Edward, thy supposed king,\nThat Lewis of France is sending over masquers\nTo revel it with him and his new bride.'


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These were her words, utter'd with mad disdain:\n'Tell him, in hope he'll prove a widower shortly,\nI'll wear the willow garland for his sake.'


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I blame not her, she could say little less;\nShe had the wrong. But what said Henry's queen?\nFor I have heard that she was there in place.


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He, more incensed against your majesty\nThan all the rest, discharged me with these words:\n'Tell him from me that he hath done me wrong,\nAnd therefore I'll uncrown him ere't be long.'


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Ha! durst the traitor breathe out so proud words?\nWell I will arm me, being thus forewarn'd:\nThey shall have wars and pay for their presumption.\nBut say, is Warwick friends with Margaret?


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Ay, gracious sovereign; they are so link'd in\nfriendship\nThat young Prince Edward marries Warwick's daughter.


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Belike the elder; Clarence will have the younger.\nNow, brother king, farewell, and sit you fast,\nFor I will hence to Warwick's other daughter;\nThat, though I want a kingdom, yet in marriage\nI may not prove inferior to yourself.\nYou that love me and Warwick, follow me.


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[Aside] Not I:\nMy thoughts aim at a further matter; I\nStay not for the love of Edward, but the crown.


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Clarence and Somerset both gone to Warwick!\nYet am I arm'd against the worst can happen;\nAnd haste is needful in this desperate case.\nPembroke and Stafford, you in our behalf\nGo levy men, and make prepare for war;\nThey are already, or quickly will be landed:\nMyself in person will straight follow you.\n[Exeunt PEMBROKE and STAFFORD]\nBut, ere I go, Hastings and Montague,\nResolve my doubt. You twain, of all the rest,\nAre near to Warwick by blood and by alliance:\nTell me if you love Warwick more than me?\nIf it be so, then both depart to him;\nI rather wish you foes than hollow friends:\nBut if you mind to hold your true obedience,\nGive me assurance with some friendly vow,\nThat I may never have you in suspect.


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Why, so! then am I sure of victory.\nNow therefore let us hence; and lose no hour,\nTill we meet Warwick with his foreign power.


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Trust me, my lord, all hitherto goes well;\nThe common people by numbers swarm to us.\n[Enter CLARENCE and SOMERSET]\nBut see where Somerset and Clarence come!\nSpeak suddenly, my lords, are we all friends?


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Then, gentle Clarence, welcome unto Warwick;\nAnd welcome, Somerset: I hold it cowardice\nTo rest mistrustful where a noble heart\nHath pawn'd an open hand in sign of love;\nElse might I think that Clarence, Edward's brother,\nWere but a feigned friend to our proceedings:\nBut welcome, sweet Clarence; my daughter shall be thine.\nAnd now what rests but, in night's coverture,\nThy brother being carelessly encamp'd,\nHis soldiers lurking in the towns about,\nAnd but attended by a simple guard,\nWe may surprise and take him at our pleasure?\nOur scouts have found the adventure very easy:\nThat as Ulysses and stout Diomede\nWith sleight and manhood stole to Rhesus' tents,\nAnd brought from thence the Thracian fatal steeds,\nSo we, well cover'd with the night's black mantle,\nAt unawares may beat down Edward's guard\nAnd seize himself; I say not, slaughter him,\nFor I intend but only to surprise him.\nYou that will follow me to this attempt,\nApplaud the name of Henry with your leader.\n[They all cry, 'Henry!']\nWhy, then, let's on our way in silent sort:\nFor Warwick and his friends, God and Saint George!


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Why, no; for he hath made a solemn vow\nNever to lie and take his natural rest\nTill Warwick or himself be quite suppress'd.


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O, is it so? But why commands the king\nThat his chief followers lodge in towns about him,\nWhile he himself keeps in the cold field?


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Ay, but give me worship and quietness;\nI like it better than a dangerous honour.\nIf Warwick knew in what estate he stands,\n'Tis to be doubted he would waken him.


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Ay, wherefore else guard we his royal tent,\nBut to defend his person from night-foes?\n[Enter WARWICK, CLARENCE, OXFORD, SOMERSET, and]\nFrench soldiers, silent all]


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This is his tent; and see where stand his guard.\nCourage, my masters! honour now or never!\nBut follow me, and Edward shall be ours.


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Stay, or thou diest!\n[WARWICK and the rest cry all, 'Warwick! Warwick!']\nand set upon the Guard, who fly, crying, 'Arm!\narm!' WARWICK and the rest following them]\n[The drum playing and trumpet sounding, reenter]\nWARWICK, SOMERSET, and the rest, bringing KING\nEDWARD IV out in his gown, sitting in a chair.\nRICHARD and HASTINGS fly over the stage]


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Ay, but the case is alter'd:\nWhen you disgraced me in my embassade,\nThen I degraded you from being king,\nAnd come now to create you Duke of York.\nAlas! how should you govern any kingdom,\nThat know not how to use ambassadors,\nNor how to be contented with one wife,\nNor how to use your brothers brotherly,\nNor how to study for the people's welfare,\nNor how to shroud yourself from enemies?


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Yea, brother of Clarence, are thou here too?\nNay, then I see that Edward needs must down.\nYet, Warwick, in despite of all mischance,\nOf thee thyself and all thy complices,\nEdward will always bear himself as king:\nThough fortune's malice overthrow my state,\nMy mind exceeds the compass of her wheel.


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Then, for his mind, be Edward England's king:\n[Takes off his crown]\nBut Henry now shall wear the English crown,\nAnd be true king indeed, thou but the shadow.\nMy Lord of Somerset, at my request,\nSee that forthwith Duke Edward be convey'd\nUnto my brother, Archbishop of York.\nWhen I have fought with Pembroke and his fellows,\nI'll follow you, and tell what answer\nLewis and the Lady Bona send to him.\nNow, for a while farewell, good Duke of York.


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Ay, that's the first thing that we have to do;\nTo free King Henry from imprisonment\nAnd see him seated in the regal throne.


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Ay, almost slain, for he is taken prisoner,\nEither betray'd by falsehood of his guard\nOr by his foe surprised at unawares:\nAnd, as I further have to understand,\nIs new committed to the Bishop of York,\nFell Warwick's brother and by that our foe.


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These news I must confess are full of grief;\nYet, gracious madam, bear it as you may:\nWarwick may lose, that now hath won the day.


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Till then fair hope must hinder life's decay.\nAnd I the rather wean me from despair\nFor love of Edward's offspring in my womb:\nThis is it that makes me bridle passion\nAnd bear with mildness my misfortune's cross;\nAy, ay, for this I draw in many a tear\nAnd stop the rising of blood-sucking sighs,\nLest with my sighs or tears I blast or drown\nKing Edward's fruit, true heir to the English crown.


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I am inform'd that he comes towards London,\nTo set the crown once more on Henry's head:\nGuess thou the rest; King Edward's friends must down,\nBut, to prevent the tyrant's violence,--\nFor trust not him that hath once broken faith,--\nI'll hence forthwith unto the sanctuary,\nTo save at least the heir of Edward's right:\nThere shall I rest secure from force and fraud.\nCome, therefore, let us fly while we may fly:\nIf Warwick take us we are sure to die.


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Now, my Lord Hastings and Sir William Stanley,\nLeave off to wonder why I drew you hither,\nInto this chiefest thicket of the park.\nThus stands the case: you know our king, my brother,\nIs prisoner to the bishop here, at whose hands\nHe hath good usage and great liberty,\nAnd, often but attended with weak guard,\nComes hunting this way to disport himself.\nI have advertised him by secret means\nThat if about this hour he make his way\nUnder the colour of his usual game,\nHe shall here find his friends with horse and men\nTo set him free from his captivity.


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Nay, this way, man: see where the huntsmen stand.\nNow, brother of Gloucester, Lord Hastings, and the rest,\nStand you thus close, to steal the bishop's deer?


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[Exeunt]\n[Flourish. Enter KING HENRY VI, CLARENCE, WARWICK,]\nSOMERSET, HENRY OF RICHMOND, OXFORD, MONTAGUE, and\nLieutenant of the Tower]


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Master lieutenant, now that God and friends\nHave shaken Edward from the regal seat,\nAnd turn'd my captive state to liberty,\nMy fear to hope, my sorrows unto joys,\nAt our enlargement what are thy due fees?


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Subjects may challenge nothing of their sovereigns;\nBut if an humble prayer may prevail,\nI then crave pardon of your majesty.


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For what, lieutenant? for well using me?\nNay, be thou sure I'll well requite thy kindness,\nFor that it made my imprisonment a pleasure;\nAy, such a pleasure as incaged birds\nConceive when after many moody thoughts\nAt last by notes of household harmony\nThey quite forget their loss of liberty.\nBut, Warwick, after God, thou set'st me free,\nAnd chiefly therefore I thank God and thee;\nHe was the author, thou the instrument.\nTherefore, that I may conquer fortune's spite\nBy living low, where fortune cannot hurt me,\nAnd that the people of this blessed land\nMay not be punish'd with my thwarting stars,\nWarwick, although my head still wear the crown,\nI here resign my government to thee,\nFor thou art fortunate in all thy deeds.


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Your grace hath still been famed for virtuous;\nAnd now may seem as wise as virtuous,\nBy spying and avoiding fortune's malice,\nFor few men rightly temper with the stars:\nYet in this one thing let me blame your grace,\nFor choosing me when Clarence is in place.


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No, Warwick, thou art worthy of the sway,\nTo whom the heavens in thy nativity\nAdjudged an olive branch and laurel crown,\nAs likely to be blest in peace and war;\nAnd therefore I yield thee my free consent.


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Warwick and Clarence give me both your hands:\nNow join your hands, and with your hands your hearts,\nThat no dissension hinder government:\nI make you both protectors of this land,\nWhile I myself will lead a private life\nAnd in devotion spend my latter days,\nTo sin's rebuke and my Creator's praise.


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Why, then, though loath, yet must I be content:\nWe'll yoke together, like a double shadow\nTo Henry's body, and supply his place;\nI mean, in bearing weight of government,\nWhile he enjoys the honour and his ease.\nAnd, Clarence, now then it is more than needful\nForthwith that Edward be pronounced a traitor,\nAnd all his lands and goods be confiscate.


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But, with the first of all your chief affairs,\nLet me entreat, for I command no more,\nThat Margaret your queen and my son Edward\nBe sent for, to return from France with speed;\nFor, till I see them here, by doubtful fear\nMy joy of liberty is half eclipsed.


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Come hither, England's hope.\n[Lays his hand on his head]\nIf secret powers\nSuggest but truth to my divining thoughts,\nThis pretty lad will prove our country's bliss.\nHis looks are full of peaceful majesty,\nHis head by nature framed to wear a crown,\nHis hand to wield a sceptre, and himself\nLikely in time to bless a regal throne.\nMake much of him, my lords, for this is he\nMust help you more than you are hurt by me.


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He was convey'd by Richard Duke of Gloucester\nAnd the Lord Hastings, who attended him\nIn secret ambush on the forest side\nAnd from the bishop's huntsmen rescued him;\nFor hunting was his daily exercise.


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My brother was too careless of his charge.\nBut let us hence, my sovereign, to provide\nA salve for any sore that may betide.


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My lord, I like not of this flight of Edward's;\nFor doubtless Burgundy will yield him help,\nAnd we shall have more wars before 't be long.\nAs Henry's late presaging prophecy\nDid glad my heart with hope of this young Richmond,\nSo doth my heart misgive me, in these conflicts\nWhat may befall him, to his harm and ours:\nTherefore, Lord Oxford, to prevent the worst,\nForthwith we'll send him hence to Brittany,\nTill storms be past of civil enmity.


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Now, brother Richard, Lord Hastings, and the rest,\nYet thus far fortune maketh us amends,\nAnd says that once more I shall interchange\nMy waned state for Henry's regal crown.\nWell have we pass'd and now repass'd the seas\nAnd brought desired help from Burgundy:\nWhat then remains, we being thus arrived\nFrom Ravenspurgh haven before the gates of York,\nBut that we enter, as into our dukedom?


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The gates made fast! Brother, I like not this;\nFor many men that stumble at the threshold\nAre well foretold that danger lurks within.


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Tush, man, abodements must not now affright us:\nBy fair or foul means we must enter in,\nFor hither will our friends repair to us.


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My lords, we were forewarned of your coming,\nAnd shut the gates for safety of ourselves;\nFor now we owe allegiance unto Henry.


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The good old man would fain that all were well,\nSo 'twere not 'long of him; but being enter'd,\nI doubt not, I, but we shall soon persuade\nBoth him and all his brothers unto reason.


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So, master mayor: these gates must not be shut\nBut in the night or in the time of war.\nWhat! fear not, man, but yield me up the keys;\n[Takes his keys]\nFor Edward will defend the town and thee,\nAnd all those friends that deign to follow me.


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Thanks, good Montgomery; but we now forget\nOur title to the crown and only claim\nOur dukedom till God please to send the rest.


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Then fare you well, for I will hence again:\nI came to serve a king and not a duke.\nDrummer, strike up, and let us march away.


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What talk you of debating? in few words,\nIf you'll not here proclaim yourself our king,\nI'll leave you to your fortune and be gone\nTo keep them back that come to succor you:\nWhy shall we fight, if you pretend no title?


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And fearless minds climb soonest unto crowns.\nBrother, we will proclaim you out of hand:\nThe bruit thereof will bring you many friends.


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Thanks, brave Montgomery; and thanks unto you all:\nIf fortune serve me, I'll requite this kindness.\nNow, for this night, let's harbour here in York;\nAnd when the morning sun shall raise his car\nAbove the border of this horizon,\nWe'll forward towards Warwick and his mates;\nFor well I wot that Henry is no soldier.\nAh, froward Clarence! how evil it beseems thee\nTo flatter Henry and forsake thy brother!\nYet, as we may, we'll meet both thee and Warwick.\nCome on, brave soldiers: doubt not of the day,\nAnd, that once gotten, doubt not of large pay.


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What counsel, lords? Edward from Belgia,\nWith hasty Germans and blunt Hollanders,\nHath pass'd in safety through the narrow seas,\nAnd with his troops doth march amain to London;\nAnd many giddy people flock to him.


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In Warwickshire I have true-hearted friends,\nNot mutinous in peace, yet bold in war;\nThose will I muster up: and thou, son Clarence,\nShalt stir up in Suffolk, Norfolk, and in Kent,\nThe knights and gentlemen to come with thee:\nThou, brother Montague, in Buckingham,\nNorthampton and in Leicestershire, shalt find\nMen well inclined to hear what thou command'st:\nAnd thou, brave Oxford, wondrous well beloved,\nIn Oxfordshire shalt muster up thy friends.\nMy sovereign, with the loving citizens,\nLike to his island girt in with the ocean,\nOr modest Dian circled with her nymphs,\nShall rest in London till we come to him.\nFair lords, take leave and stand not to reply.\nFarewell, my sovereign.


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Here at the palace I will rest awhile.\nCousin of Exeter, what thinks your lordship?\nMethinks the power that Edward hath in field\nShould not be able to encounter mine.


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That's not my fear; my meed hath got me fame:\nI have not stopp'd mine ears to their demands,\nNor posted off their suits with slow delays;\nMy pity hath been balm to heal their wounds,\nMy mildness hath allay'd their swelling griefs,\nMy mercy dried their water-flowing tears;\nI have not been desirous of their wealth,\nNor much oppress'd them with great subsidies.\nNor forward of revenge, though they much err'd:\nThen why should they love Edward more than me?\nNo, Exeter, these graces challenge grace:\nAnd when the lion fawns upon the lamb,\nThe lamb will never cease to follow him.


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Seize on the shame-faced Henry, bear him hence;\nAnd once again proclaim us King of England.\nYou are the fount that makes small brooks to flow:\nNow stops thy spring; my sea shall suck them dry,\nAnd swell so much the higher by their ebb.\nHence with him to the Tower; let him not speak.\n[Exeunt some with KING HENRY VI]\nAnd, lords, towards Coventry bend we our course\nWhere peremptory Warwick now remains:\nThe sun shines hot; and, if we use delay,\nCold biting winter mars our hoped-for hay.


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Away betimes, before his forces join,\nAnd take the great-grown traitor unawares:\nBrave warriors, march amain towards Coventry.


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They are at hand, and you shall quickly know.\n[March: flourish. Enter KING EDWARD IV, GLOUCESTER,]\nand soldiers]


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O unbid spite! is sportful Edward come?\nWhere slept our scouts, or how are they seduced,\nThat we could hear no news of his repair?


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Now, Warwick, wilt thou ope the city gates,\nSpeak gentle words and humbly bend thy knee,\nCall Edward king and at his hands beg mercy?\nAnd he shall pardon thee these outrages.


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Nay, rather, wilt thou draw thy forces hence,\nConfess who set thee up and pluck'd thee own,\nCall Warwick patron and be penitent?\nAnd thou shalt still remain the Duke of York.


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Thou art no Atlas for so great a weight:\nAnd weakling, Warwick takes his gift again;\nAnd Henry is my king, Warwick his subject.


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But Warwick's king is Edward's prisoner:\nAnd, gallant Warwick, do but answer this:\nWhat is the body when the head is off?


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Alas, that Warwick had no more forecast,\nBut, whiles he thought to steal the single ten,\nThe king was slily finger'd from the deck!\nYou left poor Henry at the Bishop's palace,\nAnd, ten to one, you'll meet him in the Tower.


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Come, Warwick, take the time; kneel down, kneel down:\nNay, when? strike now, or else the iron cools.


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I had rather chop this hand off at a blow,\nAnd with the other fling it at thy face,\nThan bear so low a sail, to strike to thee.


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Sail how thou canst, have wind and tide thy friend,\nThis hand, fast wound about thy coal-black hair\nShall, whiles thy head is warm and new cut off,\nWrite in the dust this sentence with thy blood,\n'Wind-changing Warwick now can change no more.'


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So other foes may set upon our backs.\nStand we in good array; for they no doubt\nWill issue out again and bid us battle:\nIf not, the city being but of small defence,\nWe'll quickly rouse the traitors in the same.


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Two of thy name, both Dukes of Somerset,\nHave sold their lives unto the house of York;\nAnd thou shalt be the third if this sword hold.


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And lo, where George of Clarence sweeps along,\nOf force enough to bid his brother battle;\nWith whom an upright zeal to right prevails\nMore than the nature of a brother's love!\nCome, Clarence, come; thou wilt, if Warwick call.


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Father of Warwick, know you what this means?\n[Taking his red rose out of his hat]\nLook here, I throw my infamy at thee\nI will not ruinate my father's house,\nWho gave his blood to lime the stones together,\nAnd set up Lancaster. Why, trow'st thou, Warwick,\nThat Clarence is so harsh, so blunt, unnatural,\nTo bend the fatal instruments of war\nAgainst his brother and his lawful king?\nPerhaps thou wilt object my holy oath:\nTo keep that oath were more impiety\nThan Jephthah's, when he sacrificed his daughter.\nI am so sorry for my trespass made\nThat, to deserve well at my brother's hands,\nI here proclaim myself thy mortal foe,\nWith resolution, wheresoe'er I meet thee--\nAs I will meet thee, if thou stir abroad--\nTo plague thee for thy foul misleading me.\nAnd so, proud-hearted Warwick, I defy thee,\nAnd to my brother turn my blushing cheeks.\nPardon me, Edward, I will make amends:\nAnd, Richard, do not frown upon my faults,\nFor I will henceforth be no more unconstant.


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Alas, I am not coop'd here for defence!\nI will away towards Barnet presently,\nAnd bid thee battle, Edward, if thou darest.


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Yes, Warwick, Edward dares, and leads the way.\nLords, to the field; Saint George and victory!\n[Exeunt King Edward and his company. March. Warwick]\nand his company follow]\n[Alarum and excursions. Enter KING EDWARD IV, bringing]\nforth WARWICK wounded]


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So, lie thou there: die thou, and die our fear;\nFor Warwick was a bug that fear'd us all.\nNow, Montague, sit fast; I seek for thee,\nThat Warwick's bones may keep thine company.


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Ah, who is nigh? come to me, friend or foe,\nAnd tell me who is victor, York or Warwick?\nWhy ask I that? my mangled body shows,\nMy blood, my want of strength, my sick heart shows.\nThat I must yield my body to the earth\nAnd, by my fall, the conquest to my foe.\nThus yields the cedar to the axe's edge,\nWhose arms gave shelter to the princely eagle,\nUnder whose shade the ramping lion slept,\nWhose top-branch overpeer'd Jove's spreading tree\nAnd kept low shrubs from winter's powerful wind.\nThese eyes, that now are dimm'd with death's black veil,\nHave been as piercing as the mid-day sun,\nTo search the secret treasons of the world:\nThe wrinkles in my brows, now filled with blood,\nWere liken'd oft to kingly sepulchres;\nFor who lived king, but I could dig his grave?\nAnd who durst mine when Warwick bent his brow?\nLo, now my glory smear'd in dust and blood!\nMy parks, my walks, my manors that I had.\nEven now forsake me, and of all my lands\nIs nothing left me but my body's length.\nWhy, what is pomp, rule, reign, but earth and dust?\nAnd, live we how we can, yet die we must.


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Ah, Warwick, Warwick! wert thou as we are.\nWe might recover all our loss again;\nThe queen from France hath brought a puissant power:\nEven now we heard the news: ah, could'st thou fly!


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Why, then I would not fly. Ah, Montague,\nIf thou be there, sweet brother, take my hand.\nAnd with thy lips keep in my soul awhile!\nThou lovest me not; for, brother, if thou didst,\nThy tears would wash this cold congealed blood\nThat glues my lips and will not let me speak.\nCome quickly, Montague, or I am dead.


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Ah, Warwick! Montague hath breathed his last;\nAnd to the latest gasp cried out for Warwick,\nAnd said 'Commend me to my valiant brother.'\nAnd more he would have said, and more he spoke,\nWhich sounded like a clamour in a vault,\nThat mought not be distinguished; but at last\nI well might hear, delivered with a groan,\n'O, farewell, Warwick!'


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Sweet rest his soul! Fly, lords, and save yourselves;\nFor Warwick bids you all farewell to meet in heaven.


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[Here they bear away his body. Exeunt]\n[Flourish. Enter KING EDWARD IV in triumph; with]\nGLOUCESTER, CLARENCE, and the rest]


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Thus far our fortune keeps an upward course,\nAnd we are graced with wreaths of victory.\nBut, in the midst of this bright-shining day,\nI spy a black, suspicious, threatening cloud,\nThat will encounter with our glorious sun,\nEre he attain his easeful western bed:\nI mean, my lords, those powers that the queen\nHath raised in Gallia have arrived our coast\nAnd, as we hear, march on to fight with us.


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A little gale will soon disperse that cloud\nAnd blow it to the source from whence it came:\nThe very beams will dry those vapours up,\nFor every cloud engenders not a storm.


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The queen is valued thirty thousand strong,\nAnd Somerset, with Oxford fled to her:\nIf she have time to breathe be well assured\nHer faction will be full as strong as ours.


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We are advertised by our loving friends\nThat they do hold their course toward Tewksbury:\nWe, having now the best at Barnet field,\nWill thither straight, for willingness rids way;\nAnd, as we march, our strength will be augmented\nIn every county as we go along.\nStrike up the drum; cry 'Courage!' and away.


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Great lords, wise men ne'er sit and wail their loss,\nBut cheerly seek how to redress their harms.\nWhat though the mast be now blown overboard,\nThe cable broke, the holding-anchor lost,\nAnd half our sailors swallow'd in the flood?\nYet lives our pilot still. Is't meet that he\nShould leave the helm and like a fearful lad\nWith tearful eyes add water to the sea\nAnd give more strength to that which hath too much,\nWhiles, in his moan, the ship splits on the rock,\nWhich industry and courage might have saved?\nAh, what a shame! ah, what a fault were this!\nSay Warwick was our anchor; what of that?\nAnd Montague our topmost; what of him?\nOur slaughter'd friends the tackles; what of these?\nWhy, is not Oxford here another anchor?\nAnd Somerset another goodly mast?\nThe friends of France our shrouds and tacklings?\nAnd, though unskilful, why not Ned and I\nFor once allow'd the skilful pilot's charge?\nWe will not from the helm to sit and weep,\nBut keep our course, though the rough wind say no,\nFrom shelves and rocks that threaten us with wreck.\nAs good to chide the waves as speak them fair.\nAnd what is Edward but ruthless sea?\nWhat Clarence but a quicksand of deceit?\nAnd Richard but a ragged fatal rock?\nAll these the enemies to our poor bark.\nSay you can swim; alas, 'tis but a while!\nTread on the sand; why, there you quickly sink:\nBestride the rock; the tide will wash you off,\nOr else you famish; that's a threefold death.\nThis speak I, lords, to let you understand,\nIf case some one of you would fly from us,\nThat there's no hoped-for mercy with the brothers\nMore than with ruthless waves, with sands and rocks.\nWhy, courage then! what cannot be avoided\n'Twere childish weakness to lament or fear.


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Methinks a woman of this valiant spirit\nShould, if a coward heard her speak these words,\nInfuse his breast with magnanimity\nAnd make him, naked, foil a man at arms.\nI speak not this as doubting any here\nFor did I but suspect a fearful man\nHe should have leave to go away betimes,\nLest in our need he might infect another\nAnd make him of like spirit to himself.\nIf any such be here--as God forbid!--\nLet him depart before we need his help.


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Women and children of so high a courage,\nAnd warriors faint! why, 'twere perpetual shame.\nO brave young prince! thy famous grandfather\nDoth live again in thee: long mayst thou live\nTo bear his image and renew his glories!


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And he that will not fight for such a hope.\nGo home to bed, and like the owl by day,\nIf he arise, be mock'd and wonder'd at.


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Here pitch our battle; hence we will not budge.\n[Flourish and march. Enter KING EDWARD IV, GLOUCESTER,]\nCLARENCE, and soldiers]


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Brave followers, yonder stands the thorny wood,\nWhich, by the heavens' assistance and your strength,\nMust by the roots be hewn up yet ere night.\nI need not add more fuel to your fire,\nFor well I wot ye blaze to burn them out\nGive signal to the fight, and to it, lords!


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Lords, knights, and gentlemen, what I should say\nMy tears gainsay; for every word I speak,\nYe see, I drink the water of mine eyes.\nTherefore, no more but this: Henry, your sovereign,\nIs prisoner to the foe; his state usurp'd,\nHis realm a slaughter-house, his subjects slain,\nHis statutes cancell'd and his treasure spent;\nAnd yonder is the wolf that makes this spoil.\nYou fight in justice: then, in God's name, lords,\nBe valiant and give signal to the fight.


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[Alarum. Retreat. Excursions. Exeunt]\n[Flourish. Enter KING EDWARD IV, GLOUCESTER, CLARENCE,]\nand soldiers; with QUEEN MARGARET, OXFORD, and\nSOMERSET, prisoners]


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Now here a period of tumultuous broils.\nAway with Oxford to Hames Castle straight:\nFor Somerset, off with his guilty head.\nGo, bear them hence; I will not hear them speak.


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Bring forth the gallant, let us hear him speak.\nWhat! can so young a thorn begin to prick?\nEdward, what satisfaction canst thou make\nFor bearing arms, for stirring up my subjects,\nAnd all the trouble thou hast turn'd me to?


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Speak like a subject, proud ambitious York!\nSuppose that I am now my father's mouth;\nResign thy chair, and where I stand kneel thou,\nWhilst I propose the selfsame words to thee,\nWhich traitor, thou wouldst have me answer to.


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I know my duty; you are all undutiful:\nLascivious Edward, and thou perjured George,\nAnd thou mis-shapen Dick, I tell ye all\nI am your better, traitors as ye are:\nAnd thou usurp'st my father's right and mine.


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Clarence, excuse me to the king my brother;\nI'll hence to London on a serious matter:\nEre ye come there, be sure to hear some news.


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O Ned, sweet Ned! speak to thy mother, boy!\nCanst thou not speak? O traitors! murderers!\nThey that stabb'd Caesar shed no blood at all,\nDid not offend, nor were not worthy blame,\nIf this foul deed were by to equal it:\nHe was a man; this, in respect, a child:\nAnd men ne'er spend their fury on a child.\nWhat's worse than murderer, that I may name it?\nNo, no, my heart will burst, and if I speak:\nAnd I will speak, that so my heart may burst.\nButchers and villains! bloody cannibals!\nHow sweet a plant have you untimely cropp'd!\nYou have no children, butchers! if you had,\nThe thought of them would have stirr'd up remorse:\nBut if you ever chance to have a child,\nLook in his youth to have him so cut off\nAs, deathmen, you have rid this sweet young prince!


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Nay, never bear me hence, dispatch me here,\nHere sheathe thy sword, I'll pardon thee my death:\nWhat, wilt thou not? then, Clarence, do it thou.


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Ay, but thou usest to forswear thyself:\n'Twas sin before, but now 'tis charity.\nWhat, wilt thou not? Where is that devil's butcher,\nHard-favour'd Richard? Richard, where art thou?\nThou art not here: murder is thy alms-deed;\nPetitioners for blood thou ne'er put'st back.


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He's sudden, if a thing comes in his head.\nNow march we hence: discharge the common sort\nWith pay and thanks, and let's away to London\nAnd see our gentle queen how well she fares:\nBy this, I hope, she hath a son for me.


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Ay, my good lord:--my lord, I should say rather;\n'Tis sin to flatter; 'good' was little better:\n'Good Gloucester' and 'good devil' were alike,\nAnd both preposterous; therefore, not 'good lord.'


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So flies the reckless shepherd from the wolf;\nSo first the harmless sheep doth yield his fleece\nAnd next his throat unto the butcher's knife.\nWhat scene of death hath Roscius now to act?


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The bird that hath been limed in a bush,\nWith trembling wings misdoubteth every bush;\nAnd I, the hapless male to one sweet bird,\nHave now the fatal object in my eye\nWhere my poor young was limed, was caught and kill'd.


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Why, what a peevish fool was that of Crete,\nThat taught his son the office of a fowl!\nAn yet, for all his wings, the fool was drown'd.


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I, Daedalus; my poor boy, Icarus;\nThy father, Minos, that denied our course;\nThe sun that sear'd the wings of my sweet boy\nThy brother Edward, and thyself the sea\nWhose envious gulf did swallow up his life.\nAh, kill me with thy weapon, not with words!\nMy breast can better brook thy dagger's point\nThan can my ears that tragic history.\nBut wherefore dost thou come? is't for my life?


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A persecutor, I am sure, thou art:\nIf murdering innocents be executing,\nWhy, then thou art an executioner.


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Hadst thou been kill'd when first thou didst presume,\nThou hadst not lived to kill a son of mine.\nAnd thus I prophesy, that many a thousand,\nWhich now mistrust no parcel of my fear,\nAnd many an old man's sigh and many a widow's,\nAnd many an orphan's water-standing eye--\nMen for their sons, wives for their husbands,\nAnd orphans for their parents timeless death--\nShall rue the hour that ever thou wast born.\nThe owl shriek'd at thy birth,--an evil sign;\nThe night-crow cried, aboding luckless time;\nDogs howl'd, and hideous tempest shook down trees;\nThe raven rook'd her on the chimney's top,\nAnd chattering pies in dismal discords sung.\nThy mother felt more than a mother's pain,\nAnd, yet brought forth less than a mother's hope,\nTo wit, an indigested and deformed lump,\nNot like the fruit of such a goodly tree.\nTeeth hadst thou in thy head when thou wast born,\nTo signify thou camest to bite the world:\nAnd, if the rest be true which I have heard,\nThou camest--


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I'll hear no more: die, prophet in thy speech:\n[Stabs him]\nFor this amongst the rest, was I ordain'd.


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What, will the aspiring blood of Lancaster\nSink in the ground? I thought it would have mounted.\nSee how my sword weeps for the poor king's death!\nO, may such purple tears be alway shed\nFrom those that wish the downfall of our house!\nIf any spark of life be yet remaining,\nDown, down to hell; and say I sent thee thither:\n[Stabs him again]\nI, that have neither pity, love, nor fear.\nIndeed, 'tis true that Henry told me of;\nFor I have often heard my mother say\nI came into the world with my legs forward:\nHad I not reason, think ye, to make haste,\nAnd seek their ruin that usurp'd our right?\nThe midwife wonder'd and the women cried\n'O, Jesus bless us, he is born with teeth!'\nAnd so I was; which plainly signified\nThat I should snarl and bite and play the dog.\nThen, since the heavens have shaped my body so,\nLet hell make crook'd my mind to answer it.\nI have no brother, I am like no brother;\nAnd this word 'love,' which graybeards call divine,\nBe resident in men like one another\nAnd not in me: I am myself alone.\nClarence, beware; thou keep'st me from the light:\nBut I will sort a pitchy day for thee;\nFor I will buz abroad such prophecies\nThat Edward shall be fearful of his life,\nAnd then, to purge his fear, I'll be thy death.\nKing Henry and the prince his son are gone:\nClarence, thy turn is next, and then the rest,\nCounting myself but bad till I be best.\nI'll throw thy body in another room\nAnd triumph, Henry, in thy day of doom.


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[Exit, with the body]\n[Flourish. Enter KING EDWARD IV, QUEEN ELIZABETH,]\nCLARENCE, GLOUCESTER, HASTINGS, a Nurse with the\nyoung Prince, and Attendants]


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Once more we sit in England's royal throne,\nRe-purchased with the blood of enemies.\nWhat valiant foemen, like to autumn's corn,\nHave we mow'd down, in tops of all their pride!\nThree Dukes of Somerset, threefold renown'd\nFor hardy and undoubted champions;\nTwo Cliffords, as the father and the son,\nAnd two Northumberlands; two braver men\nNe'er spurr'd their coursers at the trumpet's sound;\nWith them, the two brave bears, Warwick and Montague,\nThat in their chains fetter'd the kingly lion\nAnd made the forest tremble when they roar'd.\nThus have we swept suspicion from our seat\nAnd made our footstool of security.\nCome hither, Bess, and let me kiss my boy.\nYoung Ned, for thee, thine uncles and myself\nHave in our armours watch'd the winter's night,\nWent all afoot in summer's scalding heat,\nThat thou mightst repossess the crown in peace;\nAnd of our labours thou shalt reap the gain.


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[Aside] I'll blast his harvest, if your head were laid;\nFor yet I am not look'd on in the world.\nThis shoulder was ordain'd so thick to heave;\nAnd heave it shall some weight, or break my back:\nWork thou the way,--and thou shalt execute.


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And, that I love the tree from whence thou sprang'st,\nWitness the loving kiss I give the fruit.\n[Aside] To say the truth, so Judas kiss'd his master,]\nAnd cried 'all hail!' when as he meant all harm.


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What will your grace have done with Margaret?\nReignier, her father, to the king of France\nHath pawn'd the Sicils and Jerusalem,\nAnd hither have they sent it for her ransom.


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Away with her, and waft her hence to France.\nAnd now what rests but that we spend the time\nWith stately triumphs, mirthful comic shows,\nSuch as befits the pleasure of the court?\nSound drums and trumpets! farewell sour annoy!\nFor here, I hope, begins our lasting joy.


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I come no more to make you laugh: things now,\nThat bear a weighty and a serious brow,\nSad, high, and working, full of state and woe,\nSuch noble scenes as draw the eye to flow,\nWe now present. Those that can pity, here\nMay, if they think it well, let fall a tear;\nThe subject will deserve it. Such as give\nTheir money out of hope they may believe,\nMay here find truth too. Those that come to see\nOnly a show or two, and so agree\nThe play may pass, if they be still and willing,\nI'll undertake may see away their shilling\nRichly in two short hours. Only they\nThat come to hear a merry bawdy play,\nA noise of targets, or to see a fellow\nIn a long motley coat guarded with yellow,\nWill be deceived; for, gentle hearers, know,\nTo rank our chosen truth with such a show\nAs fool and fight is, beside forfeiting\nOur own brains, and the opinion that we bring,\nTo make that only true we now intend,\nWill leave us never an understanding friend.\nTherefore, for goodness' sake, and as you are known\nThe first and happiest hearers of the town,\nBe sad, as we would make ye: think ye see\nThe very persons of our noble story\nAs they were living; think you see them great,\nAnd follow'd with the general throng and sweat\nOf thousand friends; then in a moment, see\nHow soon this mightiness meets misery:\nAnd, if you can be merry then, I'll say\nA man may weep upon his wedding-day.\n[Enter NORFOLK at one door; at the other, BUCKINGHAM]\nand ABERGAVENNY]


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An untimely ague\nStay'd me a prisoner in my chamber when\nThose suns of glory, those two lights of men,\nMet in the vale of Andren.


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'Twixt Guynes and Arde:\nI was then present, saw them salute on horseback;\nBeheld them, when they lighted, how they clung\nIn their embracement, as they grew together;\nWhich had they, what four throned ones could have weigh'd\nSuch a compounded one?


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Then you lost\nThe view of earthly glory: men might say,\nTill this time pomp was single, but now married\nTo one above itself. Each following day\nBecame the next day's master, till the last\nMade former wonders its. To-day the French,\nAll clinquant, all in gold, like heathen gods,\nShone down the English; and, to-morrow, they\nMade Britain India: every man that stood\nShow'd like a mine. Their dwarfish pages were\nAs cherubins, all guilt: the madams too,\nNot used to toil, did almost sweat to bear\nThe pride upon them, that their very labour\nWas to them as a painting: now this masque\nWas cried incomparable; and the ensuing night\nMade it a fool and beggar. The two kings,\nEqual in lustre, were now best, now worst,\nAs presence did present them; him in eye,\nStill him in praise: and, being present both\n'Twas said they saw but one; and no discerner\nDurst wag his tongue in censure. When these suns--\nFor so they phrase 'em--by their heralds challenged\nThe noble spirits to arms, they did perform\nBeyond thought's compass; that former fabulous story,\nBeing now seen possible enough, got credit,\nThat Bevis was believed.


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As I belong to worship and affect\nIn honour honesty, the tract of every thing\nWould by a good discourser lose some life,\nWhich action's self was tongue to. All was royal;\nTo the disposing of it nought rebell'd.\nOrder gave each thing view; the office did\nDistinctly his full function.


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The devil speed him! no man's pie is freed\nFrom his ambitious finger. What had he\nTo do in these fierce vanities? I wonder\nThat such a keech can with his very bulk\nTake up the rays o' the beneficial sun\nAnd keep it from the earth.


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Surely, sir,\nThere's in him stuff that puts him to these ends;\nFor, being not propp'd by ancestry, whose grace\nChalks successors their way, nor call'd upon\nFor high feats done to the crown; neither allied\nFor eminent assistants; but, spider-like,\nOut of his self-drawing web, he gives us note,\nThe force of his own merit makes his way\nA gift that heaven gives for him, which buys\nA place next to the king.


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I cannot tell\nWhat heaven hath given him,--let some graver eye\nPierce into that; but I can see his pride\nPeep through each part of him: whence has he that,\nIf not from hell? the devil is a niggard,\nOr has given all before, and he begins\nA new hell in himself.


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Why the devil,\nUpon this French going out, took he upon him,\nWithout the privity o' the king, to appoint\nWho should attend on him? He makes up the file\nOf all the gentry; for the most part such\nTo whom as great a charge as little honour\nHe meant to lay upon: and his own letter,\nThe honourable board of council out,\nMust fetch him in the papers.


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I do know\nKinsmen of mine, three at the least, that have\nBy this so sickened their estates, that never\nThey shall abound as formerly.


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O, many\nHave broke their backs with laying manors on 'em\nFor this great journey. What did this vanity\nBut minister communication of\nA most poor issue?


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Every man,\nAfter the hideous storm that follow'd, was\nA thing inspired; and, not consulting, broke\nInto a general prophecy; That this tempest,\nDashing the garment of this peace, aboded\nThe sudden breach on't.


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Which is budded out;\nFor France hath flaw'd the league, and hath attach'd\nOur merchants' goods at Bourdeaux.


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Like it your grace,\nThe state takes notice of the private difference\nBetwixt you and the cardinal. I advise you--\nAnd take it from a heart that wishes towards you\nHonour and plenteous safety--that you read\nThe cardinal's malice and his potency\nTogether; to consider further that\nWhat his high hatred would effect wants not\nA minister in his power. You know his nature,\nThat he's revengeful, and I know his sword\nHath a sharp edge: it's long and, 't may be said,\nIt reaches far, and where 'twill not extend,\nThither he darts it. Bosom up my counsel,\nYou'll find it wholesome. Lo, where comes that rock\nThat I advise your shunning.\n[Enter CARDINAL WOLSEY, the purse borne before him,]\ncertain of the Guard, and two Secretaries with\npapers. CARDINAL WOLSEY in his passage fixeth his\neye on BUCKINGHAM, and BUCKINGHAM on him, both full\nof disdain]


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This butcher's cur is venom-mouth'd, and I\nHave not the power to muzzle him; therefore best\nNot wake him in his slumber. A beggar's book\nOutworths a noble's blood.


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What, are you chafed?\nAsk God for temperance; that's the appliance only\nWhich your disease requires.


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I read in's looks\nMatter against me; and his eye reviled\nMe, as his abject object: at this instant\nHe bores me with some trick: he's gone to the king;\nI'll follow and outstare him.


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Stay, my lord,\nAnd let your reason with your choler question\nWhat 'tis you go about: to climb steep hills\nRequires slow pace at first: anger is like\nA full-hot horse, who being allow'd his way,\nSelf-mettle tires him. Not a man in England\nCan advise me like you: be to yourself\nAs you would to your friend.


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I'll to the king;\nAnd from a mouth of honour quite cry down\nThis Ipswich fellow's insolence; or proclaim\nThere's difference in no persons.


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Be advised;\nHeat not a furnace for your foe so hot\nThat it do singe yourself: we may outrun,\nBy violent swiftness, that which we run at,\nAnd lose by over-running. Know you not,\nThe fire that mounts the liquor til run o'er,\nIn seeming to augment it wastes it? Be advised:\nI say again, there is no English soul\nMore stronger to direct you than yourself,\nIf with the sap of reason you would quench,\nOr but allay, the fire of passion.


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Sir,\nI am thankful to you; and I'll go along\nBy your prescription: but this top-proud fellow,\nWhom from the flow of gall I name not but\nFrom sincere motions, by intelligence,\nAnd proofs as clear as founts in July when\nWe see each grain of gravel, I do know\nTo be corrupt and treasonous.


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To the king I'll say't; and make my vouch as strong\nAs shore of rock. Attend. This holy fox,\nOr wolf, or both,--for he is equal ravenous\nAs he is subtle, and as prone to mischief\nAs able to perform't; his mind and place\nInfecting one another, yea, reciprocally--\nOnly to show his pomp as well in France\nAs here at home, suggests the king our master\nTo this last costly treaty, the interview,\nThat swallow'd so much treasure, and like a glass\nDid break i' the rinsing.


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Pray, give me favour, sir. This cunning cardinal\nThe articles o' the combination drew\nAs himself pleased; and they were ratified\nAs he cried 'Thus let be': to as much end\nAs give a crutch to the dead: but our count-cardinal\nHas done this, and 'tis well; for worthy Wolsey,\nWho cannot err, he did it. Now this follows,--\nWhich, as I take it, is a kind of puppy\nTo the old dam, treason,--Charles the emperor,\nUnder pretence to see the queen his aunt--\nFor 'twas indeed his colour, but he came\nTo whisper Wolsey,--here makes visitation:\nHis fears were, that the interview betwixt\nEngland and France might, through their amity,\nBreed him some prejudice; for from this league\nPeep'd harms that menaced him: he privily\nDeals with our cardinal; and, as I trow,--\nWhich I do well; for I am sure the emperor\nPaid ere he promised; whereby his suit was granted\nEre it was ask'd; but when the way was made,\nAnd paved with gold, the emperor thus desired,\nThat he would please to alter the king's course,\nAnd break the foresaid peace. Let the king know,\nAs soon he shall by me, that thus the cardinal\nDoes buy and sell his honour as he pleases,\nAnd for his own advantage.


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No, not a syllable:\nI do pronounce him in that very shape\nHe shall appear in proof.\n[Enter BRANDON, a Sergeant-at-arms before him, and]\ntwo or three of the Guard]


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Sir,\nMy lord the Duke of Buckingham, and Earl\nOf Hereford, Stafford, and Northampton, I\nArrest thee of high treason, in the name\nOf our most sovereign king.


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I am sorry\nTo see you ta'en from liberty, to look on\nThe business present: 'tis his highness' pleasure\nYou shall to the Tower.


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It will help me nothing\nTo plead mine innocence; for that dye is on me\nWhich makes my whitest part black. The will of heaven\nBe done in this and all things! I obey.\nO my Lord Abergavenny, fare you well!


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Nay, he must bear you company. The king\n[To ABERGAVENNY]\nIs pleased you shall to the Tower, till you know\nHow he determines further.


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Here is a warrant from\nThe king to attach Lord Montacute; and the bodies\nOf the duke's confessor, John de la Car,\nOne Gilbert Peck, his chancellor--


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My surveyor is false; the o'er-great cardinal\nHath show'd him gold; my life is spann'd already:\nI am the shadow of poor Buckingham,\nWhose figure even this instant cloud puts on,\nBy darkening my clear sun. My lord, farewell.


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[Exeunt]\n[Cornets. Enter KING HENRY VIII, leaning on]\nCARDINAL WOLSEY's shoulder, the Nobles, and LOVELL;\nCARDINAL WOLSEY places himself under KING HENRY\nVIII's feet on his right side]


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My life itself, and the best heart of it,\nThanks you for this great care: I stood i' the level\nOf a full-charged confederacy, and give thanks\nTo you that choked it. Let be call'd before us\nThat gentleman of Buckingham's; in person\nI'll hear him his confessions justify;\nAnd point by point the treasons of his master\nHe shall again relate.\n[A noise within, crying 'Room for the Queen!' Enter]\nQUEEN KATHARINE, ushered by NORFOLK, and SUFFOLK:\nshe kneels. KING HENRY VIII riseth from his state,\ntakes her up, kisses and placeth her by him]


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Arise, and take place by us: half your suit\nNever name to us; you have half our power:\nThe other moiety, ere you ask, is given;\nRepeat your will and take it.


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Thank your majesty.\nThat you would love yourself, and in that love\nNot unconsider'd leave your honour, nor\nThe dignity of your office, is the point\nOf my petition.


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I am solicited, not by a few,\nAnd those of true condition, that your subjects\nAre in great grievance: there have been commissions\nSent down among 'em, which hath flaw'd the heart\nOf all their loyalties: wherein, although,\nMy good lord cardinal, they vent reproaches\nMost bitterly on you, as putter on\nOf these exactions, yet the king our master--\nWhose honour heaven shield from soil!--even he\nescapes not\nLanguage unmannerly, yea, such which breaks\nThe sides of loyalty, and almost appears\nIn loud rebellion.


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Not almost appears,\nIt doth appear; for, upon these taxations,\nThe clothiers all, not able to maintain\nThe many to them longing, have put off\nThe spinsters, carders, fullers, weavers, who,\nUnfit for other life, compell'd by hunger\nAnd lack of other means, in desperate manner\nDaring the event to the teeth, are all in uproar,\nAnd danger serves among then!


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Taxation!\nWherein? and what taxation? My lord cardinal,\nYou that are blamed for it alike with us,\nKnow you of this taxation?


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Please you, sir,\nI know but of a single part, in aught\nPertains to the state; and front but in that file\nWhere others tell steps with me.


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No, my lord,\nYou know no more than others; but you frame\nThings that are known alike; which are not wholesome\nTo those which would not know them, and yet must\nPerforce be their acquaintance. These exactions,\nWhereof my sovereign would have note, they are\nMost pestilent to the bearing; and, to bear 'em,\nThe back is sacrifice to the load. They say\nThey are devised by you; or else you suffer\nToo hard an exclamation.


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I am much too venturous\nIn tempting of your patience; but am bolden'd\nUnder your promised pardon. The subjects' grief\nComes through commissions, which compel from each\nThe sixth part of his substance, to be levied\nWithout delay; and the pretence for this\nIs named, your wars in France: this makes bold mouths:\nTongues spit their duties out, and cold hearts freeze\nAllegiance in them; their curses now\nLive where their prayers did: and it's come to pass,\nThis tractable obedience is a slave\nTo each incensed will. I would your highness\nWould give it quick consideration, for\nThere is no primer business.


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And for me,\nI have no further gone in this than by\nA single voice; and that not pass'd me but\nBy learned approbation of the judges. If I am\nTraduced by ignorant tongues, which neither know\nMy faculties nor person, yet will be\nThe chronicles of my doing, let me say\n'Tis but the fate of place, and the rough brake\nThat virtue must go through. We must not stint\nOur necessary actions, in the fear\nTo cope malicious censurers; which ever,\nAs ravenous fishes, do a vessel follow\nThat is new-trimm'd, but benefit no further\nThan vainly longing. What we oft do best,\nBy sick interpreters, once weak ones, is\nNot ours, or not allow'd; what worst, as oft,\nHitting a grosser quality, is cried up\nFor our best act. If we shall stand still,\nIn fear our motion will be mock'd or carp'd at,\nWe should take root here where we sit, or sit\nState-statues only.


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Things done well,\nAnd with a care, exempt themselves from fear;\nThings done without example, in their issue\nAre to be fear'd. Have you a precedent\nOf this commission? I believe, not any.\nWe must not rend our subjects from our laws,\nAnd stick them in our will. Sixth part of each?\nA trembling contribution! Why, we take\nFrom every tree lop, bark, and part o' the timber;\nAnd, though we leave it with a root, thus hack'd,\nThe air will drink the sap. To every county\nWhere this is question'd send our letters, with\nFree pardon to each man that has denied\nThe force of this commission: pray, look to't;\nI put it to your care.


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A word with you.\n[To the Secretary]\nLet there be letters writ to every shire,\nOf the king's grace and pardon. The grieved commons\nHardly conceive of me; let it be noised\nThat through our intercession this revokement\nAnd pardon comes: I shall anon advise you\nFurther in the proceeding.


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It grieves many:\nThe gentleman is learn'd, and a most rare speaker;\nTo nature none more bound; his training such,\nThat he may furnish and instruct great teachers,\nAnd never seek for aid out of himself. Yet see,\nWhen these so noble benefits shall prove\nNot well disposed, the mind growing once corrupt,\nThey turn to vicious forms, ten times more ugly\nThan ever they were fair. This man so complete,\nWho was enroll'd 'mongst wonders, and when we,\nAlmost with ravish'd listening, could not find\nHis hour of speech a minute; he, my lady,\nHath into monstrous habits put the graces\nThat once were his, and is become as black\nAs if besmear'd in hell. Sit by us; you shall hear--\nThis was his gentleman in trust--of him\nThings to strike honour sad. Bid him recount\nThe fore-recited practises; whereof\nWe cannot feel too little, hear too much.


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Stand forth, and with bold spirit relate what you,\nMost like a careful subject, have collected\nOut of the Duke of Buckingham.


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First, it was usual with him, every day\nIt would infect his speech, that if the king\nShould without issue die, he'll carry it so\nTo make the sceptre his: these very words\nI've heard him utter to his son-in-law,\nLord Abergavenny; to whom by oath he menaced\nRevenge upon the cardinal.


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Please your highness, note\nThis dangerous conception in this point.\nNot friended by by his wish, to your high person\nHis will is most malignant; and it stretches\nBeyond you, to your friends.


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Speak on:\nHow grounded he his title to the crown,\nUpon our fail? to this point hast thou heard him\nAt any time speak aught?


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Not long before your highness sped to France,\nThe duke being at the Rose, within the parish\nSaint Lawrence Poultney, did of me demand\nWhat was the speech among the Londoners\nConcerning the French journey: I replied,\nMen fear'd the French would prove perfidious,\nTo the king's danger. Presently the duke\nSaid, 'twas the fear, indeed; and that he doubted\n'Twould prove the verity of certain words\nSpoke by a holy monk; 'that oft,' says he,\n'Hath sent to me, wishing me to permit\nJohn de la Car, my chaplain, a choice hour\nTo hear from him a matter of some moment:\nWhom after under the confession's seal\nHe solemnly had sworn, that what he spoke\nMy chaplain to no creature living, but\nTo me, should utter, with demure confidence\nThis pausingly ensued: neither the king nor's heirs,\nTell you the duke, shall prosper: bid him strive\nTo gain the love o' the commonalty: the duke\nShall govern England.'


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If I know you well,\nYou were the duke's surveyor, and lost your office\nOn the complaint o' the tenants: take good heed\nYou charge not in your spleen a noble person\nAnd spoil your nobler soul: I say, take heed;\nYes, heartily beseech you.


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On my soul, I'll speak but truth.\nI told my lord the duke, by the devil's illusions\nThe monk might be deceived; and that 'twas dangerous for him\nTo ruminate on this so far, until\nIt forged him some design, which, being believed,\nIt was much like to do: he answer'd, 'Tush,\nIt can do me no damage;' adding further,\nThat, had the king in his last sickness fail'd,\nThe cardinal's and Sir Thomas Lovell's heads\nShould have gone off.


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'If,' quoth he, 'I for this had been committed,\nAs, to the Tower, I thought, I would have play'd\nThe part my father meant to act upon\nThe usurper Richard; who, being at Salisbury,\nMade suit to come in's presence; which if granted,\nAs he made semblance of his duty, would\nHave put his knife to him.'


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After 'the duke his father,' with 'the knife,'\nHe stretch'd him, and, with one hand on his dagger,\nAnother spread on's breast, mounting his eyes\nHe did discharge a horrible oath; whose tenor\nWas,--were he evil used, he would outgo\nHis father by as much as a performance\nDoes an irresolute purpose.


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There's his period,\nTo sheathe his knife in us. He is attach'd;\nCall him to present trial: if he may\nFind mercy in the law, 'tis his: if none,\nLet him not seek 't of us: by day and night,\nHe's traitor to the height.


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As far as I see, all the good our English\nHave got by the late voyage is but merely\nA fit or two o' the face; but they are shrewd ones;\nFor when they hold 'em, you would swear directly\nTheir very noses had been counsellors\nTo Pepin or Clotharius, they keep state so.


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They have all new legs, and lame ones: one would take it,\nThat never saw 'em pace before, the spavin\nOr springhalt reign'd among 'em.


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Death! my lord,\nTheir clothes are after such a pagan cut too,\nThat, sure, they've worn out Christendom.\n[Enter LOVELL]\nHow now!\nWhat news, Sir Thomas Lovell?


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I'm glad 'tis there: now I would pray our monsieurs\nTo think an English courtier may be wise,\nAnd never see the Louvre.


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They must either,\nFor so run the conditions, leave those remnants\nOf fool and feather that they got in France,\nWith all their honourable point of ignorance\nPertaining thereunto, as fights and fireworks,\nAbusing better men than they can be,\nOut of a foreign wisdom, renouncing clean\nThe faith they have in tennis, and tall stockings,\nShort blister'd breeches, and those types of travel,\nAnd understand again like honest men;\nOr pack to their old playfellows: there, I take it,\nThey may, 'cum privilegio,' wear away\nThe lag end of their lewdness and be laugh'd at.


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Ay, marry,\nThere will be woe indeed, lords: the sly whoresons\nHave got a speeding trick to lay down ladies;\nA French song and a fiddle has no fellow.


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The devil fiddle 'em! I am glad they are going,\nFor, sure, there's no converting of 'em: now\nAn honest country lord, as I am, beaten\nA long time out of play, may bring his plainsong\nAnd have an hour of hearing; and, by'r lady,\nHeld current music too.


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O, 'tis true:\nThis night he makes a supper, and a great one,\nTo many lords and ladies; there will be\nThe beauty of this kingdom, I'll assure you.


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That churchman bears a bounteous mind indeed,\nA hand as fruitful as the land that feeds us;\nHis dews fall every where.


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He may, my lord; has wherewithal: in him\nSparing would show a worse sin than ill doctrine:\nMen of his way should be most liberal;\nThey are set here for examples.


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True, they are so:\nBut few now give so great ones. My barge stays;\nYour lordship shall along. Come, good Sir Thomas,\nWe shall be late else; which I would not be,\nFor I was spoke to, with Sir Henry Guildford\nThis night to be comptrollers.


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[Exeunt]\n[Hautboys. A small table under a state for CARDINAL]\nWOLSEY, a longer table for the guests. Then enter\nANNE and divers other Ladies and Gentlemen as\nguests, at one door; at another door, enter GUILDFORD]


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Ladies, a general welcome from his grace\nSalutes ye all; this night he dedicates\nTo fair content and you: none here, he hopes,\nIn all this noble bevy, has brought with her\nOne care abroad; he would have all as merry\nAs, first, good company, good wine, good welcome,\nCan make good people. O, my lord, you're tardy:\n[Enter Chamberlain, SANDS, and LOVELL]\nThe very thought of this fair company\nClapp'd wings to me.


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Sir Thomas Lovell, had the cardinal\nBut half my lay thoughts in him, some of these\nShould find a running banquet ere they rested,\nI think would better please 'em: by my life,\nThey are a sweet society of fair ones.


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Sweet ladies, will it please you sit? Sir Harry,\nPlace you that side; I'll take the charge of this:\nHis grace is entering. Nay, you must not freeze;\nTwo women placed together makes cold weather:\nMy Lord Sands, you are one will keep 'em waking;\nPray, sit between these ladies.


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By my faith,\nAnd thank your lordship. By your leave, sweet ladies:\nIf I chance to talk a little wild, forgive me;\nI had it from my father.


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O, very mad, exceeding mad, in love too:\nBut he would bite none; just as I do now,\nHe would kiss you twenty with a breath.


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Well said, my lord.\nSo, now you're fairly seated. Gentlemen,\nThe penance lies on you, if these fair ladies\nPass away frowning.


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You're welcome, my fair guests: that noble lady,\nOr gentleman, that is not freely merry,\nIs not my friend: this, to confirm my welcome;\nAnd to you all, good health.


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My Lord Sands,\nI am beholding to you: cheer your neighbours.\nLadies, you are not merry: gentlemen,\nWhose fault is this?


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The red wine first must rise\nIn their fair cheeks, my lord; then we shall have 'em\nTalk us to silence.


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Yes, if I make my play.\nHere's to your ladyship: and pledge it, madam,\nFor 'tis to such a thing,--


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What warlike voice,\nAnd to what end is this? Nay, ladies, fear not;\nBy all the laws of war you're privileged.


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A noble troop of strangers;\nFor so they seem: they've left their barge and landed;\nAnd hither make, as great ambassadors\nFrom foreign princes.


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Good lord chamberlain,\nGo, give 'em welcome; you can speak the French tongue;\nAnd, pray, receive 'em nobly, and conduct 'em\nInto our presence, where this heaven of beauty\nShall shine at full upon them. Some attend him.\n[Exit Chamberlain, attended. All rise, and tables removed]\nYou have now a broken banquet; but we'll mend it.\nA good digestion to you all: and once more\nI shower a welcome on ye; welcome all.\n[Hautboys. Enter KING HENRY VIII and others, as]\nmasquers, habited like shepherds, ushered by the\nChamberlain. They pass directly before CARDINAL\nWOLSEY, and gracefully salute him]\nA noble company! what are their pleasures?


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Because they speak no English, thus they pray'd\nTo tell your grace, that, having heard by fame\nOf this so noble and so fair assembly\nThis night to meet here, they could do no less\nOut of the great respect they bear to beauty,\nBut leave their flocks; and, under your fair conduct,\nCrave leave to view these ladies and entreat\nAn hour of revels with 'em.


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Say, lord chamberlain,\nThey have done my poor house grace; for which I pay 'em\nA thousand thanks, and pray 'em take their pleasures.\n[They choose Ladies for the dance. KING HENRY VIII]\nchooses ANNE]


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Pray, tell 'em thus much from me:\nThere should be one amongst 'em, by his person,\nMore worthy this place than myself; to whom,\nIf I but knew him, with my love and duty\nI would surrender it.


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Such a one, they all confess,\nThere is indeed; which they would have your grace\nFind out, and he will take it.


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Ye have found him, cardinal:\n[Unmasking]\nYou hold a fair assembly; you do well, lord:\nYou are a churchman, or, I'll tell you, cardinal,\nI should judge now unhappily.


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An't please your grace, Sir Thomas Bullen's daughter--\nThe Viscount Rochford,--one of her highness' women.


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By heaven, she is a dainty one. Sweetheart,\nI were unmannerly, to take you out,\nAnd not to kiss you. A health, gentlemen!\nLet it go round.


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Lead in your ladies, every one: sweet partner,\nI must not yet forsake you: let's be merry:\nGood my lord cardinal, I have half a dozen healths\nTo drink to these fair ladies, and a measure\nTo lead 'em once again; and then let's dream\nWho's best in favour. Let the music knock it.


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I'll tell you in a little. The great duke\nCame to the bar; where to his accusations\nHe pleaded still not guilty and alleged\nMany sharp reasons to defeat the law.\nThe king's attorney on the contrary\nUrged on the examinations, proofs, confessions\nOf divers witnesses; which the duke desired\nTo have brought viva voce to his face:\nAt which appear'd against him his surveyor;\nSir Gilbert Peck his chancellor; and John Car,\nConfessor to him; with that devil-monk,\nHopkins, that made this mischief.


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The same.\nAll these accused him strongly; which he fain\nWould have flung from him, but, indeed, he could not:\nAnd so his peers, upon this evidence,\nHave found him guilty of high treason. Much\nHe spoke, and learnedly, for life; but all\nWas either pitied in him or forgotten.


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When he was brought again to the bar, to hear\nHis knell rung out, his judgment, he was stirr'd\nWith such an agony, he sweat extremely,\nAnd something spoke in choler, ill, and hasty:\nBut he fell to himself again, and sweetly\nIn all the rest show'd a most noble patience.


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'Tis likely,\nBy all conjectures: first, Kildare's attainder,\nThen deputy of Ireland; who removed,\nEarl Surrey was sent thither, and in haste too,\nLest he should help his father.


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At his return\nNo doubt he will requite it. This is noted,\nAnd generally, whoever the king favours,\nThe cardinal instantly will find employment,\nAnd far enough from court too.


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All the commons\nHate him perniciously, and, o' my conscience,\nWish him ten fathom deep: this duke as much\nThey love and dote on; call him bounteous Buckingham,\nThe mirror of all courtesy;--


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Stay there, sir,\nAnd see the noble ruin'd man you speak of.\n[Enter BUCKINGHAM from his arraignment; tip-staves]\nbefore him; the axe with the edge towards him;\nhalberds on each side: accompanied with LOVELL,\nVAUX, SANDS, and common people]


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All good people,\nYou that thus far have come to pity me,\nHear what I say, and then go home and lose me.\nI have this day received a traitor's judgment,\nAnd by that name must die: yet, heaven bear witness,\nAnd if I have a conscience, let it sink me,\nEven as the axe falls, if I be not faithful!\nThe law I bear no malice for my death;\n'T has done, upon the premises, but justice:\nBut those that sought it I could wish more Christians:\nBe what they will, I heartily forgive 'em:\nYet let 'em look they glory not in mischief,\nNor build their evils on the graves of great men;\nFor then my guiltless blood must cry against 'em.\nFor further life in this world I ne'er hope,\nNor will I sue, although the king have mercies\nMore than I dare make faults. You few that loved me,\nAnd dare be bold to weep for Buckingham,\nHis noble friends and fellows, whom to leave\nIs only bitter to him, only dying,\nGo with me, like good angels, to my end;\nAnd, as the long divorce of steel falls on me,\nMake of your prayers one sweet sacrifice,\nAnd lift my soul to heaven. Lead on, o' God's name.


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I do beseech your grace, for charity,\nIf ever any malice in your heart\nWere hid against me, now to forgive me frankly.


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Sir Thomas Lovell, I as free forgive you\nAs I would be forgiven: I forgive all;\nThere cannot be those numberless offences\n'Gainst me, that I cannot take peace with:\nno black envy\nShall mark my grave. Commend me to his grace;\nAnd if he speak of Buckingham, pray, tell him\nYou met him half in heaven: my vows and prayers\nYet are the king's; and, till my soul forsake,\nShall cry for blessings on him: may he live\nLonger than I have time to tell his years!\nEver beloved and loving may his rule be!\nAnd when old time shall lead him to his end,\nGoodness and he fill up one monument!


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To the water side I must conduct your grace;\nThen give my charge up to Sir Nicholas Vaux,\nWho undertakes you to your end.


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Prepare there,\nThe duke is coming: see the barge be ready;\nAnd fit it with such furniture as suits\nThe greatness of his person.


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Nay, Sir Nicholas,\nLet it alone; my state now will but mock me.\nWhen I came hither, I was lord high constable\nAnd Duke of Buckingham; now, poor Edward Bohun:\nYet I am richer than my base accusers,\nThat never knew what truth meant: I now seal it;\nAnd with that blood will make 'em one day groan for't.\nMy noble father, Henry of Buckingham,\nWho first raised head against usurping Richard,\nFlying for succor to his servant Banister,\nBeing distress'd, was by that wretch betray'd,\nAnd without trial fell; God's peace be with him!\nHenry the Seventh succeeding, truly pitying\nMy father's loss, like a most royal prince,\nRestored me to my honours, and, out of ruins,\nMade my name once more noble. Now his son,\nHenry the Eighth, life, honour, name and all\nThat made me happy at one stroke has taken\nFor ever from the world. I had my trial,\nAnd, must needs say, a noble one; which makes me,\nA little happier than my wretched father:\nYet thus far we are one in fortunes: both\nFell by our servants, by those men we loved most;\nA most unnatural and faithless service!\nHeaven has an end in all: yet, you that hear me,\nThis from a dying man receive as certain:\nWhere you are liberal of your loves and counsels\nBe sure you be not loose; for those you make friends\nAnd give your hearts to, when they once perceive\nThe least rub in your fortunes, fall away\nLike water from ye, never found again\nBut where they mean to sink ye. All good people,\nPray for me! I must now forsake ye: the last hour\nOf my long weary life is come upon me. Farewell:\nAnd when you would say something that is sad,\nSpeak how I fell. I have done; and God forgive me!


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O, this is full of pity! Sir, it calls,\nI fear, too many curses on their beads\nThat were the authors.


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If the duke be guiltless,\n'Tis full of woe: yet I can give you inkling\nOf an ensuing evil, if it fall,\nGreater than this.


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I am confident,\nYou shall, sir: did you not of late days hear\nA buzzing of a separation\nBetween the king and Katharine?


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Yes, but it held not:\nFor when the king once heard it, out of anger\nHe sent command to the lord mayor straight\nTo stop the rumor, and allay those tongues\nThat durst disperse it.


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But that slander, sir,\nIs found a truth now: for it grows again\nFresher than e'er it was; and held for certain\nThe king will venture at it. Either the cardinal,\nOr some about him near, have, out of malice\nTo the good queen, possess'd him with a scruple\nThat will undo her: to confirm this too,\nCardinal Campeius is arrived, and lately;\nAs all think, for this business.


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'Tis the cardinal;\nAnd merely to revenge him on the emperor\nFor not bestowing on him, at his asking,\nThe archbishopric of Toledo, this is purposed.


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I think you have hit the mark: but is't not cruel\nThat she should feel the smart of this? The cardinal\nWill have his will, and she must fall.


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'My lord, the horses your lordship sent for, with\nall the care I had, I saw well chosen, ridden, and\nfurnished. They were young and handsome, and of the\nbest breed in the north. When they were ready to\nset out for London, a man of my lord cardinal's, by\ncommission and main power, took 'em from me; with\nthis reason: His master would be served before a\nsubject, if not before the king; which stopped our\nmouths, sir.'\nI fear he will indeed: well, let him have them:\nHe will have all, I think.


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'Tis so:\nThis is the cardinal's doing, the king-cardinal:\nThat blind priest, like the eldest son of fortune,\nTurns what he list. The king will know him one day.


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How holily he works in all his business!\nAnd with what zeal! for, now he has crack'd the league\nBetween us and the emperor, the queen's great nephew,\nHe dives into the king's soul, and there scatters\nDangers, doubts, wringing of the conscience,\nFears, and despairs; and all these for his marriage:\nAnd out of all these to restore the king,\nHe counsels a divorce; a loss of her\nThat, like a jewel, has hung twenty years\nAbout his neck, yet never lost her lustre;\nOf her that loves him with that excellence\nThat angels love good men with; even of her\nThat, when the greatest stroke of fortune falls,\nWill bless the king: and is not this course pious?


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Heaven keep me from such counsel! 'Tis most true\nThese news are every where; every tongue speaks 'em,\nAnd every true heart weeps for't: all that dare\nLook into these affairs see this main end,\nThe French king's sister. Heaven will one day open\nThe king's eyes, that so long have slept upon\nThis bold bad man.


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We had need pray,\nAnd heartily, for our deliverance;\nOr this imperious man will work us all\nFrom princes into pages: all men's honours\nLie like one lump before him, to be fashion'd\nInto what pitch he please.


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For me, my lords,\nI love him not, nor fear him; there's my creed:\nAs I am made without him, so I'll stand,\nIf the king please; his curses and his blessings\nTouch me alike, they're breath I not believe in.\nI knew him, and I know him; so I leave him\nTo him that made him proud, the pope.


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Let's in;\nAnd with some other business put the king\nFrom these sad thoughts, that work too much upon him:\nMy lord, you'll bear us company?


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Excuse me;\nThe king has sent me otherwhere: besides,\nYou'll find a most unfit time to disturb him:\nHealth to your lordships.


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Thanks, my good lord chamberlain.\n[Exit Chamberlain; and KING HENRY VIII draws the]\ncurtain, and sits reading pensively]


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A gracious king that pardons all offences\nMalice ne'er meant: our breach of duty this way\nIs business of estate; in which we come\nTo know your royal pleasure.


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Ye are too bold:\nGo to; I'll make ye know your times of business:\nIs this an hour for temporal affairs, ha?\n[Enter CARDINAL WOLSEY and CARDINAL CAMPEIUS, with]\na commission]\nWho's there? my good lord cardinal? O my Wolsey,\nThe quiet of my wounded conscience;\nThou art a cure fit for a king.\n[To CARDINAL CAMPEIUS]\nYou're welcome,\nMost learned reverend sir, into our kingdom:\nUse us and it.\n[To CARDINAL WOLSEY]\nMy good lord, have great care\nI be not found a talker.


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[Aside to NORFOLK] Not to speak of:\nI would not be so sick though for his place:\nBut this cannot continue.


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Your grace has given a precedent of wisdom\nAbove all princes, in committing freely\nYour scruple to the voice of Christendom:\nWho can be angry now? what envy reach you?\nThe Spaniard, tied blood and favour to her,\nMust now confess, if they have any goodness,\nThe trial just and noble. All the clerks,\nI mean the learned ones, in Christian kingdoms\nHave their free voices: Rome, the nurse of judgment,\nInvited by your noble self, hath sent\nOne general tongue unto us, this good man,\nThis just and learned priest, Cardinal Campeius;\nWhom once more I present unto your highness.


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And once more in mine arms I bid him welcome,\nAnd thank the holy conclave for their loves:\nThey have sent me such a man I would have wish'd for.


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Your grace must needs deserve all strangers' loves,\nYou are so noble. To your highness' hand\nI tender my commission; by whose virtue,\nThe court of Rome commanding, you, my lord\nCardinal of York, are join'd with me their servant\nIn the unpartial judging of this business.


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I know your majesty has always loved her\nSo dear in heart, not to deny her that\nA woman of less place might ask by law:\nScholars allow'd freely to argue for her.


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Ay, and the best she shall have; and my favour\nTo him that does best: God forbid else. Cardinal,\nPrithee, call Gardiner to me, my new secretary:\nI find him a fit fellow.


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They will not stick to say you envied him,\nAnd fearing he would rise, he was so virtuous,\nKept him a foreign man still; which so grieved him,\nThat he ran mad and died.


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Heaven's peace be with him!\nThat's Christian care enough: for living murmurers\nThere's places of rebuke. He was a fool;\nFor he would needs be virtuous: that good fellow,\nIf I command him, follows my appointment:\nI will have none so near else. Learn this, brother,\nWe live not to be grip'd by meaner persons.


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Deliver this with modesty to the queen.\n[Exit GARDINER]\nThe most convenient place that I can think of\nFor such receipt of learning is Black-Friars;\nThere ye shall meet about this weighty business.\nMy Wolsey, see it furnish'd. O, my lord,\nWould it not grieve an able man to leave\nSo sweet a bedfellow? But, conscience, conscience!\nO, 'tis a tender place; and I must leave her.


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Not for that neither: here's the pang that pinches:\nHis highness having lived so long with her, and she\nSo good a lady that no tongue could ever\nPronounce dishonour of her; by my life,\nShe never knew harm-doing: O, now, after\nSo many courses of the sun enthroned,\nStill growing in a majesty and pomp, the which\nTo leave a thousand-fold more bitter than\n'Tis sweet at first to acquire,--after this process,\nTo give her the avaunt! it is a pity\nWould move a monster.


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O, God's will! much better\nShe ne'er had known pomp: though't be temporal,\nYet, if that quarrel, fortune, do divorce\nIt from the bearer, 'tis a sufferance panging\nAs soul and body's severing.


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So much the more\nMust pity drop upon her. Verily,\nI swear, 'tis better to be lowly born,\nAnd range with humble livers in content,\nThan to be perk'd up in a glistering grief,\nAnd wear a golden sorrow.


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Beshrew me, I would,\nAnd venture maidenhead for't; and so would you,\nFor all this spice of your hypocrisy:\nYou, that have so fair parts of woman on you,\nHave too a woman's heart; which ever yet\nAffected eminence, wealth, sovereignty;\nWhich, to say sooth, are blessings; and which gifts,\nSaving your mincing, the capacity\nOf your soft cheveril conscience would receive,\nIf you might please to stretch it.


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No, not for all the riches under heaven.\nOld as I am, to queen it: but, I pray you,\nWhat think you of a duchess? have you limbs\nTo bear that load of title?


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Then you are weakly made: pluck off a little;\nI would not be a young count in your way,\nFor more than blushing comes to: if your back\nCannot vouchsafe this burthen,'tis too weak\nEver to get a boy.


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In faith, for little England\nYou'ld venture an emballing: I myself\nWould for Carnarvonshire, although there long'd\nNo more to the crown but that. Lo, who comes here?


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You bear a gentle mind, and heavenly blessings\nFollow such creatures. That you may, fair lady,\nPerceive I speak sincerely, and high note's\nTa'en of your many virtues, the king's majesty\nCommends his good opinion of you, and\nDoes purpose honour to you no less flowing\nThan Marchioness of Pembroke: to which title\nA thousand pound a year, annual support,\nOut of his grace he adds.


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I do not know\nWhat kind of my obedience I should tender;\nMore than my all is nothing: nor my prayers\nAre not words duly hallow'd, nor my wishes\nMore worth than empty vanities; yet prayers and wishes\nAre all I can return. Beseech your lordship,\nVouchsafe to speak my thanks and my obedience,\nAs from a blushing handmaid, to his highness;\nWhose health and royalty I pray for.


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Lady,\nI shall not fail to approve the fair conceit\nThe king hath of you.\n[Aside]\nI have perused her well;\nBeauty and honour in her are so mingled\nThat they have caught the king: and who knows yet\nBut from this lady may proceed a gem\nTo lighten all this isle? I'll to the king,\nAnd say I spoke with you.


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Why, this it is; see, see!\nI have been begging sixteen years in court,\nAm yet a courtier beggarly, nor could\nCome pat betwixt too early and too late\nFor any suit of pounds; and you, O fate!\nA very fresh-fish here--fie, fie, fie upon\nThis compell'd fortune!--have your mouth fill'd up\nBefore you open it.


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How tastes it? is it bitter? forty pence, no.\nThere was a lady once, 'tis an old story,\nThat would not be a queen, that would she not,\nFor all the mud in Egypt: have you heard it?


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With your theme, I could\nO'ermount the lark. The Marchioness of Pembroke!\nA thousand pounds a year for pure respect!\nNo other obligation! By my life,\nThat promises moe thousands: honour's train\nIs longer than his foreskirt. By this time\nI know your back will bear a duchess: say,\nAre you not stronger than you were?


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Good lady,\nMake yourself mirth with your particular fancy,\nAnd leave me out on't. Would I had no being,\nIf this salute my blood a jot: it faints me,\nTo think what follows.\nThe queen is comfortless, and we forgetful\nIn our long absence: pray, do not deliver\nWhat here you've heard to her.


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[Exeunt]\n[Trumpets, sennet, and cornets. Enter two Vergers,]\nwith short silver wands; next them, two Scribes, in\nthe habit of doctors; after them, CANTERBURY alone;\nafter him, LINCOLN, Ely, Rochester, and Saint\nAsaph; next them, with some small distance, follows\na Gentleman bearing the purse, with the great seal,\nand a cardinal's hat; then two Priests, bearing\neach a silver cross; then a Gentleman-usher\nbare-headed, accompanied with a Sergeant-at-arms\nbearing a silver mace; then two Gentlemen bearing\ntwo great silver pillars; after them, side by side,\nCARDINAL WOLSEY and CARDINAL CAMPEIUS; two Noblemen\nwith the sword and mace. KING HENRY VIII takes\nplace under the cloth of state; CARDINAL WOLSEY and\nCARDINAL CAMPEIUS sit under him as judges. QUEEN\nKATHARINE takes place some distance from KING\nHENRY VIII. The Bishops place themselves on each\nside the court, in manner of a consistory; below\nthem, the Scribes. The Lords sit next the Bishops.\nThe rest of the Attendants stand in convenient\norder about the stage]


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What's the need?\nIt hath already publicly been read,\nAnd on all sides the authority allow'd;\nYou may, then, spare that time.


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Katharine Queen of England, &c.\n[QUEEN KATHARINE makes no answer, rises out of her]\nchair, goes about the court, comes to KING HENRY\nVIII, and kneels at his feet; then speaks]


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Sir, I desire you do me right and justice;\nAnd to bestow your pity on me: for\nI am a most poor woman, and a stranger,\nBorn out of your dominions; having here\nNo judge indifferent, nor no more assurance\nOf equal friendship and proceeding. Alas, sir,\nIn what have I offended you? what cause\nHath my behavior given to your displeasure,\nThat thus you should proceed to put me off,\nAnd take your good grace from me? Heaven witness,\nI have been to you a true and humble wife,\nAt all times to your will conformable;\nEver in fear to kindle your dislike,\nYea, subject to your countenance, glad or sorry\nAs I saw it inclined: when was the hour\nI ever contradicted your desire,\nOr made it not mine too? Or which of your friends\nHave I not strove to love, although I knew\nHe were mine enemy? what friend of mine\nThat had to him derived your anger, did I\nContinue in my liking? nay, gave notice\nHe was from thence discharged. Sir, call to mind\nThat I have been your wife, in this obedience,\nUpward of twenty years, and have been blest\nWith many children by you: if, in the course\nAnd process of this time, you can report,\nAnd prove it too, against mine honour aught,\nMy bond to wedlock, or my love and duty,\nAgainst your sacred person, in God's name,\nTurn me away; and let the foul'st contempt\nShut door upon me, and so give me up\nTo the sharp'st kind of justice. Please you sir,\nThe king, your father, was reputed for\nA prince most prudent, of an excellent\nAnd unmatch'd wit and judgment: Ferdinand,\nMy father, king of Spain, was reckon'd one\nThe wisest prince that there had reign'd by many\nA year before: it is not to be question'd\nThat they had gather'd a wise council to them\nOf every realm, that did debate this business,\nWho deem'd our marriage lawful: wherefore I humbly\nBeseech you, sir, to spare me, till I may\nBe by my friends in Spain advised; whose counsel\nI will implore: if not, i' the name of God,\nYour pleasure be fulfill'd!


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You have here, lady,\nAnd of your choice, these reverend fathers; men\nOf singular integrity and learning,\nYea, the elect o' the land, who are assembled\nTo plead your cause: it shall be therefore bootless\nThat longer you desire the court; as well\nFor your own quiet, as to rectify\nWhat is unsettled in the king.


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His grace\nHath spoken well and justly: therefore, madam,\nIt's fit this royal session do proceed;\nAnd that, without delay, their arguments\nBe now produced and heard.


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Sir,\nI am about to weep; but, thinking that\nWe are a queen, or long have dream'd so, certain\nThe daughter of a king, my drops of tears\nI'll turn to sparks of fire.


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I will, when you are humble; nay, before,\nOr God will punish me. I do believe,\nInduced by potent circumstances, that\nYou are mine enemy, and make my challenge\nYou shall not be my judge: for it is you\nHave blown this coal betwixt my lord and me;\nWhich God's dew quench! Therefore I say again,\nI utterly abhor, yea, from my soul\nRefuse you for my judge; whom, yet once more,\nI hold my most malicious foe, and think not\nAt all a friend to truth.


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I do profess\nYou speak not like yourself; who ever yet\nHave stood to charity, and display'd the effects\nOf disposition gentle, and of wisdom\nO'ertopping woman's power. Madam, you do me wrong:\nI have no spleen against you; nor injustice\nFor you or any: how far I have proceeded,\nOr how far further shall, is warranted\nBy a commission from the consistory,\nYea, the whole consistory of Rome. You charge me\nThat I have blown this coal: I do deny it:\nThe king is present: if it be known to him\nThat I gainsay my deed, how may he wound,\nAnd worthily, my falsehood! yea, as much\nAs you have done my truth. If he know\nThat I am free of your report, he knows\nI am not of your wrong. Therefore in him\nIt lies to cure me: and the cure is, to\nRemove these thoughts from you: the which before\nHis highness shall speak in, I do beseech\nYou, gracious madam, to unthink your speaking\nAnd to say so no more.


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My lord, my lord,\nI am a simple woman, much too weak\nTo oppose your cunning. You're meek and\nhumble-mouth'd;\nYou sign your place and calling, in full seeming,\nWith meekness and humility; but your heart\nIs cramm'd with arrogancy, spleen, and pride.\nYou have, by fortune and his highness' favours,\nGone slightly o'er low steps and now are mounted\nWhere powers are your retainers, and your words,\nDomestics to you, serve your will as't please\nYourself pronounce their office. I must tell you,\nYou tender more your person's honour than\nYour high profession spiritual: that again\nI do refuse you for my judge; and here,\nBefore you all, appeal unto the pope,\nTo bring my whole cause 'fore his holiness,\nAnd to be judged by him.


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The queen is obstinate,\nStubborn to justice, apt to accuse it, and\nDisdainful to be tried by't: 'tis not well.\nShe's going away.


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What need you note it? pray you, keep your way:\nWhen you are call'd, return. Now, the Lord help,\nThey vex me past my patience! Pray you, pass on:\nI will not tarry; no, nor ever more\nUpon this business my appearance make\nIn any of their courts.


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Go thy ways, Kate:\nThat man i' the world who shall report he has\nA better wife, let him in nought be trusted,\nFor speaking false in that: thou art, alone,\nIf thy rare qualities, sweet gentleness,\nThy meekness saint-like, wife-like government,\nObeying in commanding, and thy parts\nSovereign and pious else, could speak thee out,\nThe queen of earthly queens: she's noble born;\nAnd, like her true nobility, she has\nCarried herself towards me.


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Most gracious sir,\nIn humblest manner I require your highness,\nThat it shall please you to declare, in hearing\nOf all these ears,--for where I am robb'd and bound,\nThere must I be unloosed, although not there\nAt once and fully satisfied,--whether ever I\nDid broach this business to your highness; or\nLaid any scruple in your way, which might\nInduce you to the question on't? or ever\nHave to you, but with thanks to God for such\nA royal lady, spake one the least word that might\nBe to the prejudice of her present state,\nOr touch of her good person?


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My lord cardinal,\nI do excuse you; yea, upon mine honour,\nI free you from't. You are not to be taught\nThat you have many enemies, that know not\nWhy they are so, but, like to village-curs,\nBark when their fellows do: by some of these\nThe queen is put in anger. You're excused:\nBut will you be more justified? You ever\nHave wish'd the sleeping of this business; never desired\nIt to be stirr'd; but oft have hinder'd, oft,\nThe passages made toward it: on my honour,\nI speak my good lord cardinal to this point,\nAnd thus far clear him. Now, what moved me to't,\nI will be bold with time and your attention:\nThen mark the inducement. Thus it came; give heed to't:\nMy conscience first received a tenderness,\nScruple, and prick, on certain speeches utter'd\nBy the Bishop of Bayonne, then French ambassador;\nWho had been hither sent on the debating\nA marriage 'twixt the Duke of Orleans and\nOur daughter Mary: i' the progress of this business,\nEre a determinate resolution, he,\nI mean the bishop, did require a respite;\nWherein he might the king his lord advertise\nWhether our daughter were legitimate,\nRespecting this our marriage with the dowager,\nSometimes our brother's wife. This respite shook\nThe bosom of my conscience, enter'd me,\nYea, with a splitting power, and made to tremble\nThe region of my breast; which forced such way,\nThat many mazed considerings did throng\nAnd press'd in with this caution. First, methought\nI stood not in the smile of heaven; who had\nCommanded nature, that my lady's womb,\nIf it conceived a male child by me, should\nDo no more offices of life to't than\nThe grave does to the dead; for her male issue\nOr died where they were made, or shortly after\nThis world had air'd them: hence I took a thought,\nThis was a judgment on me; that my kingdom,\nWell worthy the best heir o' the world, should not\nBe gladded in't by me: then follows, that\nI weigh'd the danger which my realms stood in\nBy this my issue's fail; and that gave to me\nMany a groaning throe. Thus hulling in\nThe wild sea of my conscience, I did steer\nToward this remedy, whereupon we are\nNow present here together: that's to say,\nI meant to rectify my conscience,--which\nI then did feel full sick, and yet not well,--\nBy all the reverend fathers of the land\nAnd doctors learn'd: first I began in private\nWith you, my Lord of Lincoln; you remember\nHow under my oppression I did reek,\nWhen I first moved you.


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So please your highness,\nThe question did at first so stagger me,\nBearing a state of mighty moment in't\nAnd consequence of dread, that I committed\nThe daring'st counsel which I had to doubt;\nAnd did entreat your highness to this course\nWhich you are running here.


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I then moved you,\nMy Lord of Canterbury; and got your leave\nTo make this present summons: unsolicited\nI left no reverend person in this court;\nBut by particular consent proceeded\nUnder your hands and seals: therefore, go on:\nFor no dislike i' the world against the person\nOf the good queen, but the sharp thorny points\nOf my alleged reasons, drive this forward:\nProve but our marriage lawful, by my life\nAnd kingly dignity, we are contented\nTo wear our mortal state to come with her,\nKatharine our queen, before the primest creature\nThat's paragon'd o' the world.


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So please your highness,\nThe queen being absent, 'tis a needful fitness\nThat we adjourn this court till further day:\nMeanwhile must be an earnest motion\nMade to the queen, to call back her appeal\nShe intends unto his holiness.


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[Aside]. I may perceive\nThese cardinals trifle with me: I abhor\nThis dilatory sloth and tricks of Rome.\nMy learn'd and well-beloved servant, Cranmer,\nPrithee, return: with thy approach, I know,\nMy comfort comes along. Break up the court:\nI say, set on.


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Take thy lute, wench: my soul grows sad with troubles;\nSing, and disperse 'em, if thou canst: leave working.\n[SONG]\nOrpheus with his lute made trees,\nAnd the mountain tops that freeze,\nBow themselves when he did sing:\nTo his music plants and flowers\nEver sprung; as sun and showers\nThere had made a lasting spring.\nEvery thing that heard him play,\nEven the billows of the sea,\nHung their heads, and then lay by.\nIn sweet music is such art,\nKilling care and grief of heart\nFall asleep, or hearing, die.


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Pray their graces\nTo come near.\n[Exit Gentleman]\nWhat can be their business\nWith me, a poor weak woman, fall'n from favour?\nI do not like their coming. Now I think on't,\nThey should be good men; their affairs as righteous:\nBut all hoods make not monks.


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Your graces find me here part of a housewife,\nI would be all, against the worst may happen.\nWhat are your pleasures with me, reverend lords?


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May it please you noble madam, to withdraw\nInto your private chamber, we shall give you\nThe full cause of our coming.


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Speak it here:\nThere's nothing I have done yet, o' my conscience,\nDeserves a corner: would all other women\nCould speak this with as free a soul as I do!\nMy lords, I care not, so much I am happy\nAbove a number, if my actions\nWere tried by every tongue, every eye saw 'em,\nEnvy and base opinion set against 'em,\nI know my life so even. If your business\nSeek me out, and that way I am wife in,\nOut with it boldly: truth loves open dealing.


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O, good my lord, no Latin;\nI am not such a truant since my coming,\nAs not to know the language I have lived in:\nA strange tongue makes my cause more strange,\nsuspicious;\nPray, speak in English: here are some will thank you,\nIf you speak truth, for their poor mistress' sake;\nBelieve me, she has had much wrong: lord cardinal,\nThe willing'st sin I ever yet committed\nMay be absolved in English.


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Noble lady,\nI am sorry my integrity should breed,\nAnd service to his majesty and you,\nSo deep suspicion, where all faith was meant.\nWe come not by the way of accusation,\nTo taint that honour every good tongue blesses,\nNor to betray you any way to sorrow,\nYou have too much, good lady; but to know\nHow you stand minded in the weighty difference\nBetween the king and you; and to deliver,\nLike free and honest men, our just opinions\nAnd comforts to your cause.


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Most honour'd madam,\nMy Lord of York, out of his noble nature,\nZeal and obedience he still bore your grace,\nForgetting, like a good man your late censure\nBoth of his truth and him, which was too far,\nOffers, as I do, in a sign of peace,\nHis service and his counsel.


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[Aside]. To betray me.--\nMy lords, I thank you both for your good wills;\nYe speak like honest men; pray God, ye prove so!\nBut how to make ye suddenly an answer,\nIn such a point of weight, so near mine honour,--\nMore near my life, I fear,--with my weak wit,\nAnd to such men of gravity and learning,\nIn truth, I know not. I was set at work\nAmong my maids: full little, God knows, looking\nEither for such men or such business.\nFor her sake that I have been,--for I feel\nThe last fit of my greatness,--good your graces,\nLet me have time and counsel for my cause:\nAlas, I am a woman, friendless, hopeless!


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In England\nBut little for my profit: can you think, lords,\nThat any Englishman dare give me counsel?\nOr be a known friend, 'gainst his highness' pleasure,\nThough he be grown so desperate to be honest,\nAnd live a subject? Nay, forsooth, my friends,\nThey that must weigh out my afflictions,\nThey that my trust must grow to, live not here:\nThey are, as all my other comforts, far hence\nIn mine own country, lords.


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Put your main cause into the king's protection;\nHe's loving and most gracious: 'twill be much\nBoth for your honour better and your cause;\nFor if the trial of the law o'ertake ye,\nYou'll part away disgraced.


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Ye tell me what ye wish for both,--my ruin:\nIs this your Christian counsel? out upon ye!\nHeaven is above all yet; there sits a judge\nThat no king can corrupt.


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The more shame for ye: holy men I thought ye,\nUpon my soul, two reverend cardinal virtues;\nBut cardinal sins and hollow hearts I fear ye:\nMend 'em, for shame, my lords. Is this your comfort?\nThe cordial that ye bring a wretched lady,\nA woman lost among ye, laugh'd at, scorn'd?\nI will not wish ye half my miseries;\nI have more charity: but say, I warn'd ye;\nTake heed, for heaven's sake, take heed, lest at once\nThe burthen of my sorrows fall upon ye.


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Ye turn me into nothing: woe upon ye\nAnd all such false professors! would you have me--\nIf you have any justice, any pity;\nIf ye be any thing but churchmen's habits--\nPut my sick cause into his hands that hates me?\nAlas, has banish'd me his bed already,\nHis love, too long ago! I am old, my lords,\nAnd all the fellowship I hold now with him\nIs only my obedience. What can happen\nTo me above this wretchedness? all your studies\nMake me a curse like this.


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Have I lived thus long--let me speak myself,\nSince virtue finds no friends--a wife, a true one?\nA woman, I dare say without vain-glory,\nNever yet branded with suspicion?\nHave I with all my full affections\nStill met the king? loved him next heaven?\nobey'd him?\nBeen, out of fondness, superstitious to him?\nAlmost forgot my prayers to content him?\nAnd am I thus rewarded? 'tis not well, lords.\nBring me a constant woman to her husband,\nOne that ne'er dream'd a joy beyond his pleasure;\nAnd to that woman, when she has done most,\nYet will I add an honour, a great patience.


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My lord, I dare not make myself so guilty,\nTo give up willingly that noble title\nYour master wed me to: nothing but death\nShall e'er divorce my dignities.


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Would I had never trod this English earth,\nOr felt the flatteries that grow upon it!\nYe have angels' faces, but heaven knows your hearts.\nWhat will become of me now, wretched lady!\nI am the most unhappy woman living.\nAlas, poor wenches, where are now your fortunes!\nShipwreck'd upon a kingdom, where no pity,\nNo friend, no hope; no kindred weep for me;\nAlmost no grave allow'd me: like the lily,\nThat once was mistress of the field and flourish'd,\nI'll hang my head and perish.


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If your grace\nCould but be brought to know our ends are honest,\nYou'ld feel more comfort: why should we, good lady,\nUpon what cause, wrong you? alas, our places,\nThe way of our profession is against it:\nWe are to cure such sorrows, not to sow 'em.\nFor goodness' sake, consider what you do;\nHow you may hurt yourself, ay, utterly\nGrow from the king's acquaintance, by this carriage.\nThe hearts of princes kiss obedience,\nSo much they love it; but to stubborn spirits\nThey swell, and grow as terrible as storms.\nI know you have a gentle, noble temper,\nA soul as even as a calm: pray, think us\nThose we profess, peace-makers, friends, and servants.


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Madam, you'll find it so. You wrong your virtues\nWith these weak women's fears: a noble spirit,\nAs yours was put into you, ever casts\nSuch doubts, as false coin, from it. The king loves you;\nBeware you lose it not: for us, if you please\nTo trust us in your business, we are ready\nTo use our utmost studies in your service.


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Do what ye will, my lords: and, pray, forgive me,\nIf I have used myself unmannerly;\nYou know I am a woman, lacking wit\nTo make a seemly answer to such persons.\nPray, do my service to his majesty:\nHe has my heart yet; and shall have my prayers\nWhile I shall have my life. Come, reverend fathers,\nBestow your counsels on me: she now begs,\nThat little thought, when she set footing here,\nShe should have bought her dignities so dear.


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If you will now unite in your complaints,\nAnd force them with a constancy, the cardinal\nCannot stand under them: if you omit\nThe offer of this time, I cannot promise\nBut that you shall sustain moe new disgraces,\nWith these you bear already.


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I am joyful\nTo meet the least occasion that may give me\nRemembrance of my father-in-law, the duke,\nTo be revenged on him.


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Which of the peers\nHave uncontemn'd gone by him, or at least\nStrangely neglected? when did he regard\nThe stamp of nobleness in any person\nOut of himself?


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My lords, you speak your pleasures:\nWhat he deserves of you and me I know;\nWhat we can do to him, though now the time\nGives way to us, I much fear. If you cannot\nBar his access to the king, never attempt\nAny thing on him; for he hath a witchcraft\nOver the king in's tongue.


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O, fear him not;\nHis spell in that is out: the king hath found\nMatter against him that for ever mars\nThe honey of his language. No, he's settled,\nNot to come off, in his displeasure.


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Believe it, this is true:\nIn the divorce his contrary proceedings\nAre all unfolded wherein he appears\nAs I would wish mine enemy.


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The cardinal's letters to the pope miscarried,\nAnd came to the eye o' the king: wherein was read,\nHow that the cardinal did entreat his holiness\nTo stay the judgment o' the divorce; for if\nIt did take place, 'I do,' quoth he, 'perceive\nMy king is tangled in affection to\nA creature of the queen's, Lady Anne Bullen.'


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The king in this perceives him, how he coasts\nAnd hedges his own way. But in this point\nAll his tricks founder, and he brings his physic\nAfter his patient's death: the king already\nHath married the fair lady.


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There's order given for her coronation:\nMarry, this is yet but young, and may be left\nTo some ears unrecounted. But, my lords,\nShe is a gallant creature, and complete\nIn mind and feature: I persuade me, from her\nWill fall some blessing to this land, which shall\nIn it be memorised.


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No, no;\nThere be moe wasps that buzz about his nose\nWill make this sting the sooner. Cardinal Campeius\nIs stol'n away to Rome; hath ta'en no leave;\nHas left the cause o' the king unhandled; and\nIs posted, as the agent of our cardinal,\nTo second all his plot. I do assure you\nThe king cried Ha! at this.


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He is return'd in his opinions; which\nHave satisfied the king for his divorce,\nTogether with all famous colleges\nAlmost in Christendom: shortly, I believe,\nHis second marriage shall be publish'd, and\nHer coronation. Katharine no more\nShall be call'd queen, but princess dowager\nAnd widow to Prince Arthur.


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Presently\nHe did unseal them: and the first he view'd,\nHe did it with a serious mind; a heed\nWas in his countenance. You he bade\nAttend him here this morning.


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Leave me awhile.\n[Exit CROMWELL]\n[Aside]\nIt shall be to the Duchess of Alencon,\nThe French king's sister: he shall marry her.\nAnne Bullen! No; I'll no Anne Bullens for him:\nThere's more in't than fair visage. Bullen!\nNo, we'll no Bullens. Speedily I wish\nTo hear from Rome. The Marchioness of Pembroke!


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[Aside] The late queen's gentlewoman,\na knight's daughter,\nTo be her mistress' mistress! the queen's queen!\nThis candle burns not clear: 'tis I must snuff it;\nThen out it goes. What though I know her virtuous\nAnd well deserving? yet I know her for\nA spleeny Lutheran; and not wholesome to\nOur cause, that she should lie i' the bosom of\nOur hard-ruled king. Again, there is sprung up\nAn heretic, an arch one, Cranmer; one\nHath crawl'd into the favour of the king,\nAnd is his oracle.


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What piles of wealth hath he accumulated\nTo his own portion! and what expense by the hour\nSeems to flow from him! How, i' the name of thrift,\nDoes he rake this together! Now, my lords,\nSaw you the cardinal?


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My lord, we have\nStood here observing him: some strange commotion\nIs in his brain: he bites his lip, and starts;\nStops on a sudden, looks upon the ground,\nThen lays his finger on his temple, straight\nSprings out into fast gait; then stops again,\nStrikes his breast hard, and anon he casts\nHis eye against the moon: in most strange postures\nWe have seen him set himself.


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It may well be;\nThere is a mutiny in's mind. This morning\nPapers of state he sent me to peruse,\nAs I required: and wot you what I found\nThere,--on my conscience, put unwittingly?\nForsooth, an inventory, thus importing;\nThe several parcels of his plate, his treasure,\nRich stuffs, and ornaments of household; which\nI find at such proud rate, that it out-speaks\nPossession of a subject.


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If we did think\nHis contemplation were above the earth,\nAnd fix'd on spiritual object, he should still\nDwell in his musings: but I am afraid\nHis thinkings are below the moon, not worth\nHis serious considering.\n[King HENRY VIII takes his seat; whispers LOVELL,]\nwho goes to CARDINAL WOLSEY]


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Good my lord,\nYou are full of heavenly stuff, and bear the inventory\nOf your best graces in your mind; the which\nYou were now running o'er: you have scarce time\nTo steal from spiritual leisure a brief span\nTo keep your earthly audit: sure, in that\nI deem you an ill husband, and am glad\nTo have you therein my companion.


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Sir,\nFor holy offices I have a time; a time\nTo think upon the part of business which\nI bear i' the state; and nature does require\nHer times of preservation, which perforce\nI, her frail son, amongst my brethren mortal,\nMust give my tendence to.


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And ever may your highness yoke together,\nAs I will lend you cause, my doing well\nWith my well saying!


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'Tis well said again;\nAnd 'tis a kind of good deed to say well:\nAnd yet words are no deeds. My father loved you:\nHis said he did; and with his deed did crown\nHis word upon you. Since I had my office,\nI have kept you next my heart; have not alone\nEmploy'd you where high profits might come home,\nBut pared my present havings, to bestow\nMy bounties upon you.


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Have I not made you,\nThe prime man of the state? I pray you, tell me,\nIf what I now pronounce you have found true:\nAnd, if you may confess it, say withal,\nIf you are bound to us or no. What say you?


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My sovereign, I confess your royal graces,\nShower'd on me daily, have been more than could\nMy studied purposes requite; which went\nBeyond all man's endeavours: my endeavours\nHave ever come too short of my desires,\nYet filed with my abilities: mine own ends\nHave been mine so that evermore they pointed\nTo the good of your most sacred person and\nThe profit of the state. For your great graces\nHeap'd upon me, poor undeserver, I\nCan nothing render but allegiant thanks,\nMy prayers to heaven for you, my loyalty,\nWhich ever has and ever shall be growing,\nTill death, that winter, kill it.


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Fairly answer'd;\nA loyal and obedient subject is\nTherein illustrated: the honour of it\nDoes pay the act of it; as, i' the contrary,\nThe foulness is the punishment. I presume\nThat, as my hand has open'd bounty to you,\nMy heart dropp'd love, my power rain'd honour, more\nOn you than any; so your hand and heart,\nYour brain, and every function of your power,\nShould, notwithstanding that your bond of duty,\nAs 'twere in love's particular, be more\nTo me, your friend, than any.


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I do profess\nThat for your highness' good I ever labour'd\nMore than mine own; that am, have, and will be--\nThough all the world should crack their duty to you,\nAnd throw it from their soul; though perils did\nAbound, as thick as thought could make 'em, and\nAppear in forms more horrid,--yet my duty,\nAs doth a rock against the chiding flood,\nShould the approach of this wild river break,\nAnd stand unshaken yours.


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'Tis nobly spoken:\nTake notice, lords, he has a loyal breast,\nFor you have seen him open't. Read o'er this;\n[Giving him papers]\nAnd after, this: and then to breakfast with\nWhat appetite you have.\n[Exit KING HENRY VIII, frowning upon CARDINAL WOLSEY:]\nthe Nobles throng after him, smiling and whispering]


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What should this mean?\nWhat sudden anger's this? how have I reap'd it?\nHe parted frowning from me, as if ruin\nLeap'd from his eyes: so looks the chafed lion\nUpon the daring huntsman that has gall'd him;\nThen makes him nothing. I must read this paper;\nI fear, the story of his anger. 'Tis so;\nThis paper has undone me: 'tis the account\nOf all that world of wealth I have drawn together\nFor mine own ends; indeed, to gain the popedom,\nAnd fee my friends in Rome. O negligence!\nFit for a fool to fall by: what cross devil\nMade me put this main secret in the packet\nI sent the king? Is there no way to cure this?\nNo new device to beat this from his brains?\nI know 'twill stir him strongly; yet I know\nA way, if it take right, in spite of fortune\nWill bring me off again. What's this? 'To the Pope!'\nThe letter, as I live, with all the business\nI writ to's holiness. Nay then, farewell!\nI have touch'd the highest point of all my greatness;\nAnd, from that full meridian of my glory,\nI haste now to my setting: I shall fall\nLike a bright exhalation m the evening,\nAnd no man see me more.\n[Re-enter to CARDINAL WOLSEY, NORFOLK and SUFFOLK, SURREY,]\nand the Chamberlain]


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Hear the king's pleasure, cardinal: who commands you\nTo render up the great seal presently\nInto our hands; and to confine yourself\nTo Asher House, my Lord of Winchester's,\nTill you hear further from his highness.


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Till I find more than will or words to do it,\nI mean your malice, know, officious lords,\nI dare and must deny it. Now I feel\nOf what coarse metal ye are moulded, envy:\nHow eagerly ye follow my disgraces,\nAs if it fed ye! and how sleek and wanton\nYe appear in every thing may bring my ruin!\nFollow your envious courses, men of malice;\nYou have Christian warrant for 'em, and, no doubt,\nIn time will find their fit rewards. That seal,\nYou ask with such a violence, the king,\nMine and your master, with his own hand gave me;\nBade me enjoy it, with the place and honours,\nDuring my life; and, to confirm his goodness,\nTied it by letters-patents: now, who'll take it?


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Proud lord, thou liest:\nWithin these forty hours Surrey durst better\nHave burnt that tongue than said so.


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Thy ambition,\nThou scarlet sin, robb'd this bewailing land\nOf noble Buckingham, my father-in-law:\nThe heads of all thy brother cardinals,\nWith thee and all thy best parts bound together,\nWeigh'd not a hair of his. Plague of your policy!\nYou sent me deputy for Ireland;\nFar from his succor, from the king, from all\nThat might have mercy on the fault thou gavest him;\nWhilst your great goodness, out of holy pity,\nAbsolved him with an axe.


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This, and all else\nThis talking lord can lay upon my credit,\nI answer is most false. The duke by law\nFound his deserts: how innocent I was\nFrom any private malice in his end,\nHis noble jury and foul cause can witness.\nIf I loved many words, lord, I should tell you\nYou have as little honesty as honour,\nThat in the way of loyalty and truth\nToward the king, my ever royal master,\nDare mate a sounder man than Surrey can be,\nAnd all that love his follies.


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By my soul,\nYour long coat, priest, protects you; thou\nshouldst feel\nMy sword i' the life-blood of thee else. My lords,\nCan ye endure to hear this arrogance?\nAnd from this fellow? if we live thus tamely,\nTo be thus jaded by a piece of scarlet,\nFarewell nobility; let his grace go forward,\nAnd dare us with his cap like larks.


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Yes, that goodness\nOf gleaning all the land's wealth into one,\nInto your own hands, cardinal, by extortion;\nThe goodness of your intercepted packets\nYou writ to the pope against the king: your goodness,\nSince you provoke me, shall be most notorious.\nMy Lord of Norfolk, as you are truly noble,\nAs you respect the common good, the state\nOf our despised nobility, our issues,\nWho, if he live, will scarce be gentlemen,\nProduce the grand sum of his sins, the articles\nCollected from his life. I'll startle you\nWorse than the scaring bell, when the brown wench\nLay kissing in your arms, lord cardinal.


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This cannot save you:\nI thank my memory, I yet remember\nSome of these articles; and out they shall.\nNow, if you can blush and cry 'guilty,' cardinal,\nYou'll show a little honesty.


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I had rather want those than my head. Have at you!\nFirst, that, without the king's assent or knowledge,\nYou wrought to be a legate; by which power\nYou maim'd the jurisdiction of all bishops.


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Then, that in all you writ to Rome, or else\nTo foreign princes, 'Ego et Rex meus'\nWas still inscribed; in which you brought the king\nTo be your servant.


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Then that, without the knowledge\nEither of king or council, when you went\nAmbassador to the emperor, you made bold\nTo carry into Flanders the great seal.


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Item, you sent a large commission\nTo Gregory de Cassado, to conclude,\nWithout the king's will or the state's allowance,\nA league between his highness and Ferrara.


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Then that you have sent innumerable substance--\nBy what means got, I leave to your own conscience--\nTo furnish Rome, and to prepare the ways\nYou have for dignities; to the mere undoing\nOf all the kingdom. Many more there are;\nWhich, since they are of you, and odious,\nI will not taint my mouth with.


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O my lord,\nPress not a falling man too far! 'tis virtue:\nHis faults lie open to the laws; let them,\nNot you, correct him. My heart weeps to see him\nSo little of his great self.


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Lord cardinal, the king's further pleasure is,\nBecause all those things you have done of late,\nBy your power legatine, within this kingdom,\nFall into the compass of a praemunire,\nThat therefore such a writ be sued against you;\nTo forfeit all your goods, lands, tenements,\nChattels, and whatsoever, and to be\nOut of the king's protection. This is my charge.


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And so we'll leave you to your meditations\nHow to live better. For your stubborn answer\nAbout the giving back the great seal to us,\nThe king shall know it, and, no doubt, shall thank you.\nSo fare you well, my little good lord cardinal.


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So farewell to the little good you bear me.\nFarewell! a long farewell, to all my greatness!\nThis is the state of man: to-day he puts forth\nThe tender leaves of hopes; to-morrow blossoms,\nAnd bears his blushing honours thick upon him;\nThe third day comes a frost, a killing frost,\nAnd, when he thinks, good easy man, full surely\nHis greatness is a-ripening, nips his root,\nAnd then he falls, as I do. I have ventured,\nLike little wanton boys that swim on bladders,\nThis many summers in a sea of glory,\nBut far beyond my depth: my high-blown pride\nAt length broke under me and now has left me,\nWeary and old with service, to the mercy\nOf a rude stream, that must for ever hide me.\nVain pomp and glory of this world, I hate ye:\nI feel my heart new open'd. O, how wretched\nIs that poor man that hangs on princes' favours!\nThere is, betwixt that smile we would aspire to,\nThat sweet aspect of princes, and their ruin,\nMore pangs and fears than wars or women have:\nAnd when he falls, he falls like Lucifer,\nNever to hope again.\n[Enter CROMWELL, and stands amazed]\nWhy, how now, Cromwell!


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What, amazed\nAt my misfortunes? can thy spirit wonder\nA great man should decline? Nay, an you weep,\nI am fall'n indeed.


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Why, well;\nNever so truly happy, my good Cromwell.\nI know myself now; and I feel within me\nA peace above all earthly dignities,\nA still and quiet conscience. The king has cured me,\nI humbly thank his grace; and from these shoulders,\nThese ruin'd pillars, out of pity, taken\nA load would sink a navy, too much honour:\nO, 'tis a burthen, Cromwell, 'tis a burthen\nToo heavy for a man that hopes for heaven!


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I hope I have: I am able now, methinks,\nOut of a fortitude of soul I feel,\nTo endure more miseries and greater far\nThan my weak-hearted enemies dare offer.\nWhat news abroad?


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That's somewhat sudden:\nBut he's a learned man. May he continue\nLong in his highness' favour, and do justice\nFor truth's sake and his conscience; that his bones,\nWhen he has run his course and sleeps in blessings,\nMay have a tomb of orphans' tears wept on em! What more?


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Last, that the Lady Anne,\nWhom the king hath in secrecy long married,\nThis day was view'd in open as his queen,\nGoing to chapel; and the voice is now\nOnly about her coronation.


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There was the weight that pull'd me down. O Cromwell,\nThe king has gone beyond me: all my glories\nIn that one woman I have lost for ever:\nNo sun shall ever usher forth mine honours,\nOr gild again the noble troops that waited\nUpon my smiles. Go, get thee from me, Cromwell;\nI am a poor fall'n man, unworthy now\nTo be thy lord and master: seek the king;\nThat sun, I pray, may never set! I have told him\nWhat and how true thou art: he will advance thee;\nSome little memory of me will stir him--\nI know his noble nature--not to let\nThy hopeful service perish too: good Cromwell,\nNeglect him not; make use now, and provide\nFor thine own future safety.


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O my lord,\nMust I, then, leave you? must I needs forego\nSo good, so noble and so true a master?\nBear witness, all that have not hearts of iron,\nWith what a sorrow Cromwell leaves his lord.\nThe king shall have my service: but my prayers\nFor ever and for ever shall be yours.


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Cromwell, I did not think to shed a tear\nIn all my miseries; but thou hast forced me,\nOut of thy honest truth, to play the woman.\nLet's dry our eyes: and thus far hear me, Cromwell;\nAnd, when I am forgotten, as I shall be,\nAnd sleep in dull cold marble, where no mention\nOf me more must be heard of, say, I taught thee,\nSay, Wolsey, that once trod the ways of glory,\nAnd sounded all the depths and shoals of honour,\nFound thee a way, out of his wreck, to rise in;\nA sure and safe one, though thy master miss'd it.\nMark but my fall, and that that ruin'd me.\nCromwell, I charge thee, fling away ambition:\nBy that sin fell the angels; how can man, then,\nThe image of his Maker, hope to win by it?\nLove thyself last: cherish those hearts that hate thee;\nCorruption wins not more than honesty.\nStill in thy right hand carry gentle peace,\nTo silence envious tongues. Be just, and fear not:\nLet all the ends thou aim'st at be thy country's,\nThy God's, and truth's; then if thou fall'st,\nO Cromwell,\nThou fall'st a blessed martyr! Serve the king;\nAnd,--prithee, lead me in:\nThere take an inventory of all I have,\nTo the last penny; 'tis the king's: my robe,\nAnd my integrity to heaven, is all\nI dare now call mine own. O Cromwell, Cromwell!\nHad I but served my God with half the zeal\nI served my king, he would not in mine age\nHave left me naked to mine enemies.


