Better than York, since it is yours no longer; They shall not part us! He's no traitor, Sir! Hen. Then he is worse-our prisoner, our sworn foeVanquished. York. Ah! Catherine, plead for me no more, My friends, lift up the banners once again, And wend you forth. Ransom for theirs.-You're pardoned, gentlemen ; Depart in peace. [to Urswick.] If they get thro' the forest, The procession exit. Urswick follows, and returns. I, that have caused so many nobler deaths, Lead him-quick-hence! And you, fair Catherine, [Exeunt York, Duch., & Hen. Urswick, come near. How like a York he look'd! Place him beside his cousin in the Tower, Tho' eighteen years, is but a child in thought, And give his name to a shilling. Let them meet, Westminster. SCENE II. [Exeunt. Three weeks have elapsed. The Duchess has had intimation, through the Earl of Warwick's fool, of Warbeck's intended escape. the Jester's Bauble, which he leaves behind him; and while the Duchess is weeping with delight at the prospect of joining her husband in his flight, Hen. Enter Henry. Have you not wept enough yet? You shall not see me weep Where is your mistress? That's well. Hen. Go to her. [She is going.] Ho! come back. Well, look at me : I am the King. I spoke to try her. He was noble, too, And loved her. Pah! She'll turn her widow's weeds Into a net, with meshes villainous close, To catch another husband. Twould be shame To balk her angling.-Urswick ! [Exit Duchess.] [Sees the bauble. Enter Digby. Digby (hurriedly) My liege— Hen. What now? Be calm as I am. What? Know you not yet that the quick hurried speech Is but for fools-to speak or listen to? What is it? Take your breath. What is it, sir! Dig. My liege, prince Edward and the duke of York. Hen. You mean lord Warwick, sir, and Perkin Warbeck. Dig. Pardon, your grace. They hatch a plot between them. Hen. Fear not that egg will addle. What's the plot? Dig. To fly, my liege. They've tampered with the guards; Four they have now. Hen. "Twill cost four ropes, sir John, To hang them. And when thought they to escape? Dig. To-night. Hen. How know you this? Dig. Has been lord Warwick's playmate,-loves him, sir, As children love their fellows. Hen. What is all this? With Perkin's plot ? Dig. My daughter, sir, Well, sir John, What has this tale to do My Mabel, please your grace, Is of so loving a nature and so kind! She's kissed me with more heart-love than of wont Hung over me before she went to bed, And clung again to me i' the morning, sir, And wept, and had a heaving at her heart When she looked on me. And at last, your grace, — For she in her fond fealty to her friend Was minded to go with them, she knelt down An excellent lieutenant of the Tower, But a bad king. They'll die by course of law. Hen. Aye. I have said. The law. The sword is always dangerous, for your foe Dig. I merely said, I see not how the law would touch their case. Hen. But I have clearer sight. No sword for me, This king, to speak of him in terms equal to his deserving, was one of the best sort of wonders-a wonder for wise men. He had parts both in his virtues and his fortune, not so fit for a common-place as for observation. Certainly he was religious, both in his affection and observance. But as he could see clear, for those times, through superstition, so he would be blinded, now and then, by human policy. He advanced churchmen; he was tender in the privilege of sanctuaries, though they wrought him much mischief. He built and endowed many religious foundations, besides his memorable hospital of the Savoy; and yet was he a great alms-giver in secret, which showed that his works in public were dedicated rather to God's glory than his own. He professed always to love and seek peace; and it was his usual preface in his treatise, that when Christ came into the world peace was sung, and when he went out of the world peace was bequeathed. And this virtue could not proceed out of fear or softness, for he was valiant and active, and therefore no doubt it was truly Christian and moral. Yet he knew the way to peace was not to seem to be desirous to avoid war; therefore would he make offers and fames of wars till he had mended the conditions of peace. It was also much, that one that was so great a lover of peace should be so happy in war; for his arms, either in foreign or civil wars, were never infortunate: neither did he know what a disaster meant. The war of his coming in, and the rebellions of the Earl of Lincoln and the Lord Audley, were ended by victory; the wars of France and Scotland, by peaces sought at his hands; that of Britain by accident of the duke's death; the insurrection of the Lord Lovel, and that of Perkin at Exeter and in Kent, by flight of the rebels before they came to blows. So that his fortune of arms was still inviolate; the rather sure, for that in the quenching of the commotions of his subjects, he ever went in person; sometimes reserving himself to back and second his lieutenants, but ever in action; and yet that was not merely forwardness, but partly distrust of others. He did much maintain and countenance his laws, which, nevertheless, was no impediment to him to work his will; for it was so handled that neither prerogative nor profit went to diminution. And yet as he would sometimes strain up his laws to his prerogative, so he would also let down his prerogative to his parliament; for mint, and wars, and martial discipline, things of absolute power, he would nevertheless bring to parliament. Justice was well administered in his time, save where the king was party; save also that the council-table intermeddled too much with "meum" and "tuum." For it was a very court of justice during his time, especially in the beginning; but, in that part both of justice and policy which is the durable part, and cut, as it were, in brass or marble, which is the making of good laws, he did excel. And with his justice he was also a merciful prince; as in whose time there were but three of the nobility that suffered-the Earl of Warwick, the Lord Chamberlain, and the Lord Audley; though the first two were, instead of numbers, in the dislike and obloquy of the people. But there were never so great rebellions expiated with so little blood drawn by the hand of justice, as the two rebellions of Blackheath and Exeter. As for the severity used upon those which were taken in Kent, it was but a scum of people. His pardons went ever both before and after his sword. But then he had withal a strange kind of interchanging of large and inexpected pardons with severe executions, which, his wisdom considered, could not be imputed to any inconstancy or inequality, but either to some reason which we do not now know, or to a principle he had set unto himself, that he would vary and try both ways in turn. But the less blood he drew, the more he took of treasure: and, as some construed it, he was the more sparing in the one that he might be the more pressing in the other, for both would have been intolerable. Of nature assuredly he coveted to accumulate treasure, and was a little poor in admiring riches. The people, into whom there is infused, for the preservation of monarchies, a natural desire to discharge their princes, though it be with the unjust charge of their counsellors and ministers, did impute this unto Cardinal Morton and Sir Reginald Bray, who, as it after appeared, as counsellors of ancient authority with him, did so second his humours, as nevertheless they did temper them. Whereas Empson and Dudley that followed being persons that had no reputation with him, otherwise than by the servile following of his bent, did not give way only as the first did, but shape him way to those extremities, for which himself was touched with remorse at his death, and which his successor renounced and sought to purge. This excess of his had at that time many glosses and inter |