Mar. I were beft to leave him, for he will not hear. Mar. And yet I would that you would answer me. Suf. I'll win this Lady Margaret. For whom? Why, for my King: Tufh, that's a wooden thing Mar. He talks of Wood: It is fome Carpenter. Suf. Yet fo my Fancy may be fatisfied, 'And Peace established between these Realms; Mar. Hear ye, Captain? are you not at leifure? Mar. What, tho' I be inthrall'd, he seems a Keigh And will not any way dishonour me. Suf. Lady, vouchsafe to liften what I fay. Mar. Perhaps I fhall be refcu'd by the French, 'And then I need not crave his Courtefie. Suf. Sweet Madam, give me hearing in a caufe. Mar. I cry you mercy, 'tis but Quid for Quo. Mar. To be a Queen in Bondage, is more vile, Than is a Slave in bafe fervility: For Princes fhould be free. Suf. And fo fhall you, If happy England's Royal King be free. Το Mar Why, what concerns his freedom unto me? And fet a precious Crown upon thy Head, Mar. What? Suf. Suf. His Love. Mar. I am unworthy to be Henry's Wife. Suf. No, gentle Madam, I unworthy am To woo fo fair a Dame to be his Wife, And have no Portion in the choice my self. How fay you, Madam, are you fo content? Mar. And if my Father please, I am content. Suff. Then call our Captains and our Colours forth. And, Madam, at your Father's Castle Walls, We'll crave a Parley to confer with him. Sound. Enter Reignier on the Walls. See Reignier, fee, thy Daughter Prisoner. Suf. To me. Reig. Suffolk, what remedy? I am a Soldier and unapt to weep, Suf. Yes, there is remedy enough, my Lord, Suff. Fair Margaret knows, That Suffolk doth not flatter, face, or fain. Reig. Welcome, brave Earl, into our Territories, Enjoy mine own, the Country Main and Anjou, My Daughter fhall be Henry's, if he please. Give thee her Hand for fign of plighted Faith. And yet methinks I could be well content Reig. I do embrace thee, as I would embrace [Afide. Mar. Farewel my Lord, good wishes, praife, and prayers, Shall Suffolk ever have of Margaret. [She is going. Suf. Farewel, fweet Madam; but hark you, Margaret, No Princely Commendations to my King? Mar. Such Commendations as becomes a Maid, A Virgin and his Servant, fay to him. Suf. Words fweetly plac'd, and modeftly directed. But, Madam, I must trouble you again, No loving Token to his Majefty? Mar. Yes, my good Lord, a pure unspotted Heart, J [Kiffes her. Mar. That for thy felf-I will not so prefume, To fend fuch peevish Tokens to a King. Suf. O wert thou for my felf but Suffolk stay, Thou mayeft not wander in that Labyrinth, That when thou com'ft to kneel at Henry's Feet, Enter Enter York, Warwick, a Shepherd, and Pucelle. York. Bring forth that Sorceress condemn'd to burn. of Shep. Ah, Joan, this kills thy Father's Heart out-right; Have I fought every Country far and near, And now it is my chance to find thee out, I am defcended of a gentler Blood. Thou art no Father, nor no Friend of mine. Shep. Out, out--My Lords, and please you, 'tis not fo, I did beget her all the Parifh knows: Her Mother liveth yet, can teftifie She was the first Fruit of my Batch'lor-fhip. War. Graceless, wilt thou deny thy Parentage? Pucel. Peafant, avant. You have fuborn'd this Man Shep. 'Tis true, I gave a Noble to the Prieft, Thy Mother gave thee, when thou fuck'dft her Breaft, Or elfe, when thou didst keep my Lambs afield, Doft thou deny thy Father, curfed Drab? York. Take her away, for the hath liv'd too long, To fill the World with vitious Qualities. [Exit. Pucel. First, let me tell you whom you have condemn'd, Not me, begotten of a Shepherd Swain, But iffued from the Progeny of Kings, Virtuous and Holy, chofen from above, By inspiration of Celestial Grace, Pucel. Will nothing turn your unrelenting Hearts? That warranteth by Law, to be thy Privilege. I am with Child, ye bloody Homicides: Murther not then the Fruit within my Womb, Although ye hale me to a violent Death. York. Now Heav'n forfend! the holy Maid with Child? War. The greateft Miracle that ere you wrought: Is all your ftrict precifenefs come to this? Tork. She and the Dauphin have been juggling, I-did imagine what would be her refuge. War. Well, go to, we will have no Bastards live, Pucel. You are deceiv'd, my Child is none of his, you; War. A married Man! that's most intolerable. York |