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K. Hen. Peace to his soul, if God's good pleasure
be! Lord cardinal, if thou think'st on heaven's bliss, Hold up thy hand, make sigoal of thy hope.He dies, and makes no sign; O God, forgive him!
War. So bad a death argues a monstrous life.
K. Hen. Forbear to judge, for we are sinners all.Close up his eyes, and draw the curtain close; And let us all to meditatiou.
SCENE I.-Kent. The sea-shore near Dover.
Firing heard at sea. Then enter from a boat, a
Captain, a Master, a Master's Mate, WALTER WHITMORE, and Others; with them SUFFOLK, and other Gentlemen, prisoners.
Cap. The gaudy, blabbing, and remorseful day
Is crept into the boson of the sea;
And now loud-howling wolves arouse the jades,
That drag the tragic melancholy night;
Who with their drowsy, slow, and flagging wings,
Clip dead men's graves, and from their misty jaws
Breathe foul contagious darkness in the air.
Therefore, bring forth the soldiers of our prize;
For, whilst. our pinnace anchors in the Downs,
Here shall they make their ransom on the sand,
Or with their blood stain this discolour'd shore.
Master, this prisoner freely give I thee ;-
And thou that art bis mate, make boot of this ;-
The other, [Pointing to Suffolk,] Walter Whitmore,
is thy share.
i Gent. What is my ransom, master; let me know.
Mast. A thousand crowns, or else lay down your
head. Mate. And so much shall you give, or off goes
yours. Cap. What, think you much to pay two thousond
crowns, And bear the name and port of gentlemen ?Cut both the villains' throats ;—for die you shall; The lives of those, which we have lost in fight, Cannot be counterpois’d with such a petty sum. i Gent. I'll give it, sir; and therefore spare my
2 Gent. And so will I, and write home for it
Whit. I lost mine eye in faying the prize aboard,
And therefore, to revenge it, shalt thou die; (To Suf.
And so should these, if I might have my
Cap. Be not so rash; take ransom, let him live.
Suf. Look on my George, I am a gentleman;
Rate me at what thou wilt, thou shalt be paid.
Whit. And so am I; my name is—Walter Whit
How now? why start'st thou? what, doth death
Suf. Thy name affrights me, in whose sound is
A cupping man did calculate
And told me—that by Water I should die:
Yet let not this make thee be bloody minded;
Thy name is -- Gualtier, being rightly sounded.
Whit. Gualtier, or Walter, which it is, I care not;
Ne’er yet did base dishonour blur our name,
But with our sword we wip'd away the blot ;
Therefore, when merchant-like I sell revenge,
Broke be my sword, my arms torn and defac’d,
And I proclaim'd a coward through the world!
[Lays hold on Suffolk.
Suf. Stay, Whitmore; for thy prisoner is a prince,
The duke of Suffolk, William de la Poole.
Whit. The duke of Suffolk, muffled
up in rags! Suf. Ay, but these rags are no part of the duke; Jove sometime went disguis’d, and why not I?
Cap. But Jove was never slain, as thou shalt be.
Suf. Obscure and lowly swain, king Henry's blood,
The honourable blood of Lancaster,
Must not be shed by such a jaded groom.
Hast thou not kiss'd thy band, and held my stirrup?
Bare-headed plodded by my foot-cloth mule,
And thought thee happy when I shook my head?
How often hast thou waited at my cup,
Fed from my trencher, kneeld down at the board,
When I have feasted with queen Margaret?
Remember it, and let it make thee crest-fallin;
Ay, and allay this thy abortive pride:
How in our voiding lobby hast thou stood,
And duly waited for my coining forth?
This hand of mine hath writ in thy behalf,
And therefore shall it charm thy riotous tongue.
Whit. Speak, captain, shall I stab the forlorn swain?
Cáp. First let my words stab him, as he hath me.
Suf. Base slave! thy words are blunt, and so art
Cap. Convey him lience, and on our long-boat's
Strike off his head.
Suf. Thou dar’st not for thy own.
Cap. Yes, Poole.
Cap. Poole? Sir Poole? lord ?
Ay, kennel, puddle, sink; whose filth and dirt
Troubles the silver spring where England drinks.
Now will I dam up this thy yawning mouth,
For swallowing the treasure of the realın:
Thy lips, that kiss'd the queen, shall sweep the ground;
And thou, that smil'dst at good duke Humphrey's
Against the senseless winds shall grin in vain,
Who, in contempt, shall hiss at thee again :
And wedded be thou to the hags of hell,
For daring to affy a mighty lord
Unto the daughter of a worthless king,
Having neither subject, wealth, nor diadem.
By devilish policy art thou grown great,
And, like ambitious Sylla, overgorg'd
With gobbets of thy mother's bleeding heart.
By thee, Anjou and Maine were sold to France :
The false revolting Normans, thorough thee,
Disdain to call us lord; and Picardy
Hath slain their governors, surpriz'd our forts,
And sent thy ragged 'soldiers wounded home.
The princely Warwick, and the Nevils all,
Whose dreadful swords were never drawn in vain,
As hating thee, are rising up in arms:
And now the house of York-thrust from the crown,
By shameful murder of a gailtless king,
And lofty proud encroaching tyranny,
Burns with revenging fire; whose hopeful colours
Advance our half-fac'd sun, striving to shine,
Under the which is writ-Invitis nubibus.
The commons here in Kent are up in arms:
And, to conclude, reproach, and beggary,
Is crept into the palace of our king,
And all by thee:-Away! convey him hence.
Suf. O that I were a god, to shoot forth thunder Upon these paltry, servile, abject drudges! Small things make base men proud: this villain here, Being captain of a pinnace, threatens more
Than Bargulus, the strong Illyrian pirate.
Drones suck not eagles' blood, but rob bee-hives.
It is impossible, that I should die
By such a lowly vassal as thyself.
Thy words move rage, and not remorse, in me:
of message from the queen to France ;
I charge thee, waft me safely cross the channel.
Cap. Walter, · Whit. Come, Suffolk, I must waft thee to 'thy
death. Suf. Gelidus timor occupat artus : 'tis thee i
fear. Whit. Thou shalt have cause to fear, before I
leave thee. What, are ye daunted now? How will ye stoop? i Gent. My gracious lord, entreat him, speak him
fair. Suf. Suffolk's imperial tongue is stern and rough, Us'd to command, untaught to plead for favour. Far be it, we should honour such as these With humble suit: no, rather let
Stoop to the block, than these knees bow to any,
Save to the God of heaven, and to my king;
And sooner dance upon a bloody pole,
Than stand uncover'd to the vulgar groom.
True nobility is exempt from fear :-
More can I bear, than you dare execute.
Cap. Hale him away, and let him talk no more. ':
Suf. Come, soldiers, show what cruelty ye can,
That this my death may never be forgot! -
Great men oft die by vile bezonians :
A Roman sworder and banditto slave,
Murder'd sweet Tully; Brutus' bastard hand
Stabb’d Julius Cæsar; savage islanders,
Pompey the great: and Suffolk dies by pirates.
[Exit Suf. with Whit. and Others.