Q.Mar. Nay then, this spark will prove a raging Fire,
If Wind and Fuel be brought to feed it with:
No more, good Tork; fweet Somerset be ftill.
Thy fortune, Tork, hadst thou been Regent there,
Might haply have prov'd far worse than his.
York. What, worse than naught? nay, then a fhame take all
Som. And in the number, thee that wifheft Shame.
Car. My Lord of York, try what your Fortune is.
Th' uncivil Kerns of Ireland are in Arms,
And temper Clay with Blood of Englishmen.
To Ireland will you lead a Band of Men,
Collected choicely, from each Country fome,
And try your hap against the Irishmen?
Tork. I will, my Lord, fo please his Majefty.
Suf. Why, our Authority is his Confent,
And what we do eftablish he confirms;
Then, Noble Tork, take thou this task in hand.
Tork. I am content: Provide me Soldiers, Lords,
Whiles I take Order for mine own Affairs.
Suf. A charge, Lord York, that I will fee perform'd.
But now return we to the falfe Duke Humphry.
Car. No more of him; for I will deal with him,
That henceforth he fhall trouble us no more:
And fo break off, the Day is almost spent,
Lord Suffolk, you and I must talk of that Event.
Tork. My Lord of Suffolk, within fourteen Days
At Bristol I expect my Soldiers,
For there I'll Ship them all for Ireland.
Suf. I'll fee it truly done, my Lord of York.
York. Now York, or never, fteel thy fearful Thoughts,
And change Mildoubt to Refolution:
Be that thou hop'it to be, or what thou art
Refign to Death, it is not worth th' enjoying:
Let pale-fac'd Fear keep with the mean-born Mar,
And find no harbour in a Royal Heart.
Faster than Spring-time fhowers, comes thought on though',
And not a thought, but thinks on Dignity.
My Brain, more bufie than the labouring Spider,
Weaves tedious Snares to trap mine Enemies.
Well Nobles, well; 'tis politickly done,
To fend me packing with an Host of Men:
I fear me, you but warm the ftarved Snake,
Who cherish'd in your Breafts, will fting your Hearts.
'Twas Men I lack'd, and you will give them me ;
I take it kindly; yet be well affur'd,
You put sharp Weapons in a mad Man's Hands.
Whilft I in Ireland nourish a mighty Band,
I will ftir up in England fome black Storm,
Shall blow ten thousand Souls to Heaven or Hell:
And this fell Tempeft fhall not cease to rage,
Until the golden Circuit on my Head
Like to the glorious Sun's tranfparent Beams,
Do calm the fury of this mad-brain'd Flaw.
And for a Minifter of my intent,
I have feduc'd a headstrong Kentish Man,
John Cade of Ashford,
To make Commotion, as full well he can,
Under the Title of John Martimer.
In Ireland have I feen this ftubborn Cade
Oppofe himself against a Troop of Kerns,
And fought fo long, 'till that his Thighs with Darts
Were almost like a fharp-quill'd Porcupine:
And in the end being refcued, I have seen
Him caper upright, like a wild Morifco,
Shaking the bloody Darts, as he his Bells,
Full often, like a fhag-hair'd crafty Kern,
Hath he converfed with the Enemy,
And undiscovered come to me again,
And given me notice of their Villanies.
This Devil, here, fhall be my Substitute;
For that John Mortimer, which is now dead,!
In Face, in Gate, in Speech he doth refemble.
By this I fhall perceive the Commons Mind,
How they affect the House and Claim of York,
Say he be taken, rack'd and tortured;
I know no pain they can inflict upon him,
Will make him fay, I mov'd him to thofe Arms.
Say that he thrive, as 'tis great like he will,
Why then from Ireland come I with my ftrength,
And reap the Harvest which that Rafcal fow'd;
£13
For Humphry being dead, as he fhall be,
And Henry put a-part; the next for me.
Enter two or three running over the Stage, from the Murther of Duke Humphry.
1. Run to my Lord of Suffolk; let him know We have dispatch'd the Duke, as he commanded. 2. Oh that it were to do: What have we done? Didst ever hear a Man f penitent?
1. Here comes my Lord.
Suf. Now, Sirs, have you dispatcht this thing? 1. Ay, my good Lord, he's dead.
Suf. Why, tha's well faid. Go, get you to my House, I will reward you for this venturous Deed:
The King and all the Peers are here at hand.
Have you laid fair the Bed? are all things well,
According as I gave Directions?
1. Yes, my good Lord.
Suf. Away, be gone.
Enter King Henry, the Queen, Cardinal, Suffolk, Somerfet, with Attendants.
K. Henry. Go call our Uncle to our prefence straight: Say we intend to try his Grace to day,
If he be guilty, as 'tis published.
Suf. I'll call him prefently, my Noble Lord.
K. Henry. Lords take your Places; and I pray you all Proceed no ftraiter 'gainft our Uncle Glofter,
Than from true Evidence of good esteem,
He be approv'd in practice culpable.
Q. Mar. God forbid any Malice should prevail, That faultlefs may condemn a Nobleman:
Pray God he may acquit him of Sufpicion.
K. Henry. I thank thee Nell, thefe Words content me much.
How now? why lock'ft thou pale? why trembleft thou?
Where is our Uncle? what's the matter, Suffolk?
Suf. Dead in his Bed, my Lord, Glofter is dead.
Q. Mar. Marry God forfend.
Car. God's fecret Judgment: I did dream to Night,
The Duke was dumb, and could not speak a word. [K. fwoons.
Q. Mar. How fares my Lord? Help Lords, the King is dead.
Som. Rear up his Body, wring him by the Nofe.
Q. Mar. Run, go, help, help: Oh Henry, ope thine Eyes.
Suf. He doth revive again, Madam be patient.
K. Henry. O Heavenly God!
Q. Mar. How fares my gracious Lord?
Suf. Comfort my Sovereign, gracious Henry comfort.
K. Henry. What, doth my Lord of Suffolk comfort me?
Came h right now to fing a Raven's Note,
Whose dismal tune bereft my vital Powers:
And thinks he, that the chirping of a Wren,
By crying Comfort from a hollow Breaft,
Can chafe away the first conceived found?
Hide not thy poyfon with fuch fugar'd Words,
Lay not thy Hands on me; forbear, I say,
Their touch affrights me as a Serpent's fting.
Thou baleful Meffenger, out of my fight:
Upon thy Eye-balls murderous Tyranny
Sits in grim Majefty, to fright the World.
Look not upon me, for thine Eyes are wounding;
Yet do not go away; come, Bafilisk,
And kill the innocent Gazer with thy fight:
For in the shade of Death, I fhall find Joy;
In life, but double death, now Glofter's dead.
Q. Mar. Why do you rate my Lord of Suffolk thus?
Although the Duke was Enemy to him,
Yet he moft Chriftian-like laments his Death;
As for my felf, Foe as he was to me,
Might liquid Tears, or heart-offending Groans,
Or blood-confuming fighs recal his Life;
I would be blind with weeping, fick with Groans,
Look pale as Primrofe, with blood-drinking fighs,
And all to have the Noble Duke alive.
What know I how the World may de m of me?
For it is known we were but hollow Friends:
It may be judg'd I made the Duke away,
So fhall my Name with Slander's Tongue be wounded,
And Princes Courts be filed with Reproach:
This get I by his death: Aye me unhappy,
To be a Queen, and crown'd with I famy.
K. Henry. Ah woe is me for Glofter, wretched Man.
Q.Mar. Be woe for me, more wretched than he is.
What, doft thou turn away and hide thy Face?
I am no loathsome Leper, look on me.
What, art thou like an Adder waxen deaf?
Be poysonous too, and kill thy forlorn Queen,'
Is all thy Comfort shut in Gio'fter's Tomb?
Why then Dame Margaret was ne'er thy Joy.
Erect his Statue, and do worship to it,
And make my Image but an Ale-house fign.
Was I for this nigh wreckt upon the Sea,
And twice by aukward Wind from England's Bank
Drove back again unto my Native Clime?
What boaded this? but well fore-warning Wind
Did feem to fay, Seck not a Scorpion's Neft,
Nor fet a footing on this unkind Shoar,
What did I then? but curft the gentle gufts,
And he that loos'd them from their Brazen Caves,
And bid them blow towards England's bleffed fhoar,
Or turn our Stern upon a dreadful Rock:
Yet Eolus would not be a Murtherer,
But left that hateful Office unto thee.
The pretty vaulting Sea refus'd to drown me,
Knowing that thou wouldst have me drown'd on fhoar
With Tears as falt as Sea, through thy unkindness.
The splitting Rocks cower'd in the finking Sands,
And would not dash me with their ragged fides,
Because thy flinty Heart, more hard than they,;
Might in thy Palace perish Margaret:
As far as I could ken thy Chalky Cliffs,
When from thy fhoar the Tempeft beat us back,'
I ftood upon the Hatches in the Storm,
And when the dusky Sky began to rob
My earnest gaping fight of the Land's view,
I took a coftly Jewel from my Neck,
A Heart it was, bound in with Diamonds,
And threw it towards thy Land; the Sea receiv'd it,
And fo I wish'd thy Body might my Heart:
And even with this I loft fair England's view,
And bid mine Eyes be packing with my Heart,
And call'd them blind and dusky Spectacles,
For lofing ken of Albion's wifhed Coaft,
How often have I tempted Suffolk's Tongue
(The Agent of thy foul Inconftancy)
|