I would invent as bitter fearching terms,
As curft, as harth, and horrible to hear,
Deliver'd ftrongly through my fixed Teeth,
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 fhould sparkle like the beaten Flint,
Mine Hair be fixt an end, as one distract :
Ay, every Joint should seem to Curfe and Ban,
And even now my burthen'd Heart would break,'
Should I not curfe them. Poison be their Drink,
Gall, worse than Gall, the daintieft that they taste,
Their sweetest Shade, a Grove of Cypress 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.
All the foul Terrors in dark-feated Hell-
. Mar. Enough, fweet Suffolk, thou torment'ft thy felt, And thefe dread Curfes, like the Sun 'gainst Glass, Or like an overcharged Gun, recoil,
And turn the force of them upon thy felf.
Suf. You bad me ban, and will you bid me leave?
Now by the Ground that I am banifh'd from,
Well could I curfe away a Winter's Night,
Though ftanding naked on a Mountain top,
Where biting Cold would never let Grass grow,
And think it but a minute spent in fport.
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 these 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, speak not to me; even now be gone
Oh go not yet-Even thus, two Friends condemn'd
Embrace, and kiss, and take ten thousand Leaves,
Loather a hundred times to part than die:
Yet now farewel, and farewel Life with thee.
Suff. 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 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 ought, but that thou liv'ft.
Enter Vaux.
Q. Mar. Whither goes Vaux lo 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 Ghoft
Were by his fide; fometimes he calls the King,
And whifpers to his Pillow, as to him,
The fecrets of his over-charged Soul:
And I am fent to tell his Majesty,
Then even now he cries aloud for him.
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 increase; 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 else,
But like a pleafant Slumber 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 Sight, 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 fhouldst thou either turn my flying Soul,
Or I fhould breathe it fo into thy Body,
And then it liv'd in fweet Elyfium.
To die by thee, were but to die in jeft,
From thee to die, were torture more than Death;
Or let me stay, befal what may befal.
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.
2. Mar. And take my Heart with thee.
Suf. A Jewel lock'd into the woful'st Casket
That ever did contain a thing of worth,
Even as a fplitted Bark, fo funder we;
This way fall I to death.
2. 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. If thou beeft Death, I'll give thee England's Treafure,
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 Trial when you will.
Dy'd he not in his Bed? where should 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 thousand Pound to look upon him-
He hath no Eyes, the Duft ha h blinded them:
Combe down his Hair; lock, look, ir ftands upright,
Like Lime twigs fet to catch my winged Soul:
Give me fome drink and bid th' Apothecary
Bring the ftrong Puifon that I bought of him.
K. Henry. O thou eternal Mover of the Heav'ns,
Lock with a gentle Eye upon this Wretch,
Oh beat away the bulie 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. Difturb 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. Close up his Eyes, and draw the Curtain close," And let us all to Meditation. [Exeunt. Alarum. 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 Night4"
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 fhall they make their Ranfom on the Sand,
O 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.
Gen. 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 2000 Crowns, And bear the Name and Port of Gentlemen? Cut both the Villains Throats, for die you fhall: 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, fhalt thou die; And fo fhould thefe, if I might have my Will. Cap. Be not fo rafh, 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 fo am I; my name is Walter Whitmore. How now? why start'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 should 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 base dishonour 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 lowfie Swain-King Henry's Blood!
Suf. The honourable Blood of Lancaster
Muft not be shed by such 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.
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