And banished I am, if but from thee.

Go, speak not to me; even now be gone-
Oh, go not yet-Ev'n thus two friends condemn'd
Embrace and kifs, and take ten thousand 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 heav'nly company.

For where thou art, there is the World it felf;
With ev'ry fev'ral pleasure in the world:
And where thou art not, Defolation.

I can no more-Live thou to joy thy life;
My felf.no joy in aught but that thou liv'ft.

Enter Vaux.

Q. Mar. Whither goes Vaux fo faft? what news, I pr'ythee?

Vaux. To fignifie unto his Majesty,

That Cardinal Beauford is at point of death:
For fuddenly a grievous fickness 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 ghoft
Were by his fide; fometimes, he calls the King;
And whifpers to his pillow, as to him,
The fecrets of his over-charged foul :
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.

[Ex. Vaux. Ay me! what is this world? what news are these ? But wherefore grieve I at an hour's poor lofs, Omitting Suffolk's exile, my foul's treasure? Why only, Suffolk, mourn I not for thee, And with the fouthern clouds contend in tears? Theirs for the earth's increase; mine for my forrows.

Now,

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 pleafant flumber in thy lap?
Here could I breathe my foul into the air,
As mild and gentle as the cradle-babe
Dying with mother's dug between its lips.
Where, from thy fight, I fhould 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 foul;
Or I should breathe it fo into thy body;

And then it liv'd in sweet Elyfium.

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.

Suf. I go.

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.

[Exeunt feverally.

SCENE, the Cardinal's Bedchamber.

Enter King Henry, Salisbury, and Warwick, to the Car

K. Henry!

dinal in Bed.

OW fares my lord? fpeak, Beauford, to thy Soveraign.

H
How

Car. If thou beeft Death, I'll give thee England's trea

fure,

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 feen fo terrible!
War. Beauford, it is thy Soveraign speaks to thee.
Car. Bring me unto my Tryal, when you will.
Dy'd he not in his bed? where fhould he die?
Can I make men live whe're they will or no?
Oh, torture me no more, I will confefs-
Alive again? then fhew me, where he is:
I'll give a thousand pound to look upon him—
He hath no eyes, the duft hath blinded them:
Comb down his hair; look! look! it stands upright,
Like lime-twigs fet to catch my winged foul:
Give me fome drink, and bid th' apothecary
Bring the strong 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 fiege unto this wretch's foul,
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 foul, if God's good pleasure be!
Lord Cardinal, if thou think'ft on heaven's bliss,
Hold up thy hand, make fignal of thy hope.
He dies, and makes no fign! O God, forgive him.
War. So bad a death argues a monftrous life.

K. Henry. Forbear to judge, for we are finners all.
Clofe up his eyes, and draw the curtain close,
And let us all to meditation.

[Exeunt.

ACT

A C T IV.

SCENE, the Coast of Kent.

Alarum. Fight at fea. Ordnance goes off. Enter Captain, Whitmore, and other Pirates, with Suffolk and others Prifoner's.

T

CAPTAIN.

HE gaudy, blabbing, and remorseful day
Is crept into the bofom of the fea:

And now loud howling wolves aroufe the
jades,

That drag the tragick melancholy night;
Who with their drowfie, flow, and flagging wings
Clip dead mens graves; and from their mifty jaws
Breathe foul contagious darkness in the air.
Therefore bring forth the foldiers of our prize :
For whilft our Pinnace anchors in the Downs,
Here fhall they make their ranfom on the fand;
Or with their blood ftain this difcolour'd fhore.
Master, this prifoner freely give I thee;

And thou, that art his mate, make boot of this :
The other, Walter Whitmore is thy fhare.

1 Gent. What is my ranfom, mafter, 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 two thoufand

crowns,

And bear the name and port of gentlemen?
Cut both the villains throats, for die you fhall:
Nor can those lives, which we have loft in fight,
Be counter-pois'd with fuch a petty fum.

R 4

1 Gent.

1 Gent. I'll give it, Sir, and therefore fpare my life. 2 Gent. And fo will I, and write home for it straight. Whit. I loft mine eye in laying the prize aboard, And therefore, to revenge it, fhalt thou die; [To Suffolk. And so should these, if I might have my will.

Cap. Be not fo rash, take ransom, let him live.
Suf. Look on my George, I am a gentleman;
Rate me at what thou wilt, thou fhalt 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. Gaultier or Walter, which it is, I care not;
Ne'er yet did base Dishonour blur our name,
But with our fword we wip'd away the blot.
Therefore, when merchant-like I fell revenge,
Broke be my fword, 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 these rags are no part of the Duke.
Jove fometimes went difguis'd, and why not I?
Cap. But Jove was never flain, as thou fhalt be.
Suf. Obfcure and lowly fwain, King Henry's blood,
The honourable blood of Lancaster,

Muft not be shed by fuch a jaded groom:
Haft thou not kifs'd thy hand, and held my ftirrop?
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-fal'n;
Ay, and allay this thy abortive pride.
How in our voiding lobby haft thou stood,
And duly waited for my coming forth?