With full as many figns of deadly Hate,
As lean-fac'd Envy in her loathfome Cave.
My Tongue should stumble in mine earnest words,
Mine Eyes should sparkle like the beaten Flint,
Mine Hair be fixt an end, as one distract:
Ay, every Joint fhould feem to Curfe and Ban,
And even now my burthen'd Heart would break,
Should I not curse them. Poifon be their Drink,
Gall, worse than Gall, the daintieft that they tafte,
Their fweeteft fhade, a Grove of Cyprefs Trees,
Their chiefeft Profpect, murd'ring Bafilisks,
Their fofteft Touch, as fmart as Lizards ftings,
Their Mufick, frightful as the Serpents hifs,
And boading Screech-Owls, make the Confort full.
And the foul Terrors in dark-feated Hell
Q. Mar. Enough, fweet Suffolk, thou torment'ft thy felf,
And thefe dread Curfes, like the Sun 'gainst Glafs,
Or like an overcharged Gun, recoil,
And turn the force of them upon thy felf.
Suf. You bade me ban, and will you bid me leave?
Now by the ground that I am banish'd from,
Well could I curfe away a Winter's Night,
Though ftanding naked on a Mountain top,
Where biting Cold would never let Grafs grow,
And think it but a minute fpent in sport.
Q. Mar. Oh, let me intreat thee ceafe, give me thy hand, That I may dew it with my mournful Tears;
Nor let the Rain of Heav'n wet this place,
To wash away my woful Monuments.
Oh, could this kifs be printed in thy Hand,
That thou might'ft think upon thefe by the Seal,
Through whom a thousand Sighs are breath'd for thee.
So get thee gone, that I may know my Grief,
'Tis but furmiz'd whilft thou art ftanding by,
As one that Surfeits, thinking on a want:
I will repeal thee, or be well affur'd,
Adventure to be banished my felf:
And banished I am, if but from thee
Go, fpeak not to me; even now be
Oh
go not yet-Even thus, two Friend's condemn'd
Embrace, and kiss, and take ten thoufand Leaves,
Loather a hundred times to part than die :
Yet now farewel, and farewel Life with thee.
Suf. Thus is poor Suffolk ten times banished,
Once by the King, and three times thrice by thee.
'Tis not the Land I care for, wert thou hence,
A Wilderness is populous enough,
So Suffolk had thy heavenly Company,
For where thou art, there is the World it felf,
With every feveral Pleafure in the World:
And where thou art not, Defolation.
I can no moreLive thou to joy thy Life;
My felf no Joy in ought, but that thou liv'ft.
Q Mar. Whither goes Vaux fo faft? what News, I prithee?
Vaux. To fignifie unto his Majefty,
That Cardinal Beauford is at the point of death:
For fuddenly a grievous Sickness took him,
That makes him gafp, and ftare, and catch the Air,
Blafpheming God, and curfing Men on Earth.
Sometimes he talks, as if Duke Humphry's Ghost
Were by his fide; fometimes he calls the King,
And whispers to his Pillow, as to him,
The fecrets of his over-charged Soul:
And I am fent to tell his Majefty,
That even now he cries aloud for him.
Q. Mar. Go tell this heavy Meffage to the King. [Exit.
Ay me! what is this World? what News are these?
But wherefore grieve I at an hours poor lofs,
Omitting Suffolk's Exile, my Soul's Treasure?
Why only, Suffolk, mourn I not for thee,
And with the Southern Clouds, contend in tears?
Theirs for the Earths increafe; mine for my Sorrows.
Now get thee hence, the King thou know'ft is coming,
If thou be found by me, thou art but dead.
Suf. If I depart from thee, I cannot live,
And in thy fight to die, what were it elfe,
But like a pleasant flumber in thy lap?
Here could I breathe my Soul into the Air,
As mild and gentle, as the Cradle-babe,
Dying with Mother's Dug between its Lips.
Where, from thy fight, I should be raging mad,
And cry out for thee to close up mine Eyes;
To have thee with thy Lips to ftop my Mouth;
So shouldft thou either turn my flying Soul,
Or I fhould breathe it fo into thy Body,
And then it lives in fweet Elysium.
To die by thee, were but to die in jest,
From thee to die, were torture more than Death;
Oh let me ftay, befal what may befal.
Q. Mar. Away; though parting be a fretful Corrofive,
It is applied to a deathful Wound.
To France, fweet Suffolk; let me hear from thee:
For wherefoe'er thou art in this World's Globe,
I'll have an Iris that fhall find thee, out.
Q.Mar. And take my Heart with thee.
Suf. A Jewel lock'd into the woful'ft Casket
That ever did contain a thing of worth,
Even as a splitted Bark, fo funder we;
This way fall I to death.
Q. Mar. This way for me.
Enter King Henry, Salisbury, and Warwick, to the Cardinal
K. Henry. How fares my Lord? Speak Beauford to thy Soveraign.
Car. Ifthou beeft Death, I'll give thee England's Treasure, Enough to purchase fuch another Island,
So thou wilt let me live, and feel no pain.
K. Henry. Ah, what a fign it is of evil Life,
Where Death's approach is seen so terrible!
War. Beanford, it is thy Soveraign speaks to thee.
Car. Bring me unto my Trial when you will.
Dy'd he not in his Bed? where fhould he die?
Can I make Men live where they will or no?
Oh torture me no more, I will confefs-
Alive again? Then fhew me where he is:
I'll give a thoufand Pound to look upon him-
He hath no Eyes, the Duft hath blinded them:
Combe down his Hair; look, look, it ftands up ight,
Like Lime-twigs fet to catch my winged Soul:
Give me fome drink, and bid th' Apothecary
Bring the ftrong Poifon that I bought of him.
K. Henry. O thou eternal Mover of the Heav'ns,
Look with a gentle Eye upon this Wretch,
Oh beat away the bufie medling Fiend,
That lays ftrong Siege unto this Wretch's Soul,
And from his Bofom purge this black despair.
War. See how the Pangs of death do make him grin.
Sal. Disturb him not, let him pafs peaceably.
K. Henry. Peace to his Soul, if God's good pleasure be
Lord Cardinal, if thou think'ft on Heav'n's blifs,
Hold up thy Hand, make signal of thy hope.
He dies, and makes no Sign: Oh God forgive him.
War. So bad a Death argues a monftrous Life.
K. Henry. Forbear to judge, for we are Sinners all.
Clofe up his Eyes, and draw the Curtain clofe,
And let us all to Meditation.
[Exeunt. Allarum. Fight at Sea. Ordnance goes off. Enter Captain, Whitmore, and other Pirates, with Suffolk and others Prisoners.
Cap. The gaudy blabbing and remorseful day,
Is crept into the Bofom of the Sea :
And now loud howling Wolves aroufe the Jades
That drag the Tragick melancholy Night:
Who with their drowfie, flow, and flagging Wings
Cleap dead Mens Graves; and from their mifty Jaws,
Breath foul contagious darkness in the Air:
Therefore bring forth the Soldiers of our prize,
For whilft our Pinnace anchors in the Downs,
Here shall they make their Ranfom on the Sand,
Or with their Blood ftain this difcoloured fhore.
Mafter, this Prifoner freely give I thee.
And thou that art his Mate, make Boot of this:
The other, Walter Whitmore, is thy fhare.
I Gen. What is my Ranfom, Master, let me know.
Maft. A thousand Crowns, or elfe lay down your Head.
Mate. And fo much fhall you give, or off goes yours.
Whit. What, think you much to pay 2000 Crowns,
And bear the Name and Port of Gentlemen?
M m
Cut both the Villains Throats, for die you
Nor can thofe lives which we have loft in fight,
Be counter-pois'd with fuch a petty Sum.
1 Gent. I'll give it, Sir, and therefore fpare my Life. 2 Gent. And fo will I, and write home for it ftraight. Whit. I loft mine Eye in laying the prize aboard, And therefore to revenge it, shalt thou die ; [To Suffolk. And fo fhould thefe, if I might have my Will.
Cap. Be not fo rafh, take Ranfom, let him live.
Suf. Look on my George, I am a Gentleman,
Rate me at what thou wilt, thou shalt be paid.
Whit. And fo am I; my name is Walter Whitmore.
How now? why ftart'ft thou? what, doth death affright?
Suf. Thy name affrights me, in whofe found is Death:
A cunning Man did calculate my Birth,
And told me, that by Water I fhould die:
Yet let not this make thee be Bloody-minded,
Thy name is Gualtier, being rightly founded.
Whit. Gualtier or Walter, which it is I care not,
Ne'er yet did bafe difhonour blur our Name,
But with our Sword we wip'd away the blot.
Therefore, when Merchant-like I fell revenge,
Broke be my Sword, my Arms torn and defac'd,
And I proclaim'd a Coward through the World.
Suf. Stay Whitmore, for thy Prifoner is a Prince,
The Duke of Suffolk, William de la Pole.
Whit. The Duke of Suffolk, muffled up in Rags!
Suf. Ay, but thefe Rags are no part of the Duke.
Cap. But Jove was never flain as thou shalt be,
Obfcure and low fie Swain-King Henry's Blood!
Suf. The honourable Blood of Lancaster
Muft not be hed by fuch a jaded Groom:
Haft thou not kifs'd thy Hand, and held my Stirrop?
Bare-headed plodded by my Foot-cloth Mule,
And thought thee happy when I fhook my Head.
How often haft thou waited at my Cup,
Fed from my Trencher, kneel'd down at the Board,
When I have feafted with Queen Margaret?
Remember it, and let it make thee Creft-faln,
Ay, and allay this thy abortive Pride:
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