I would invent as bitter fearching terms, 1 17
As curft, as harth, and horrible to hear, of zon Mond
Deliver'd ftrongly through my fixed Teeth,
With full as many figns of deadly Hate, b
As lean-fac'd Envy in her loathfome Cave.
My Tongue fhould stumble in mine earnest, Words,
Mine Eyes fhould fparkle like the beaten Flint,
Mine Hair be fixt an end, as one distracınıza oda 05.0
Ay, every Joint fhould seem to Curfe and Banjicars
And even now my burthen'd Heart would break,W A
Should I not curfe them. Poifon be their Drink,
Gall, worfe than Gall, the daintieft that they taste,
Their fweeteft Shade, a Grove of Cypress Trees,
Their chiefeft Profpect, murd'ring Bafilisks,
Their fofteft Touch, as fmart as Lizards ftings,
Their Mulick, frightful as the Serpents hids,
And boading Screech Owls, make the Confort full.
All the foul Terrors in dark-feated Hell -
Q.Mar. Enough, fweet Suffolk, thou torment't thy felf, And thefe dread Curfes, like the Sun 'gainft 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 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 Grass grow,
And think it but a minute fpent in fport,
2.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't think upon thefe by the Seal, Through whom a thousand Sighs are breath'd for thee. 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.
Q. Mar. Whither goes Vaux fo faft? what News, ! 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 whispers to his Pillow, as to him,
The fecrets of his over-charged Soul:
And I am fent to tell his Majefty,
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 loss, Omitting Suffolk's Exile, my Soul's Treafure? 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 elfe,
But like a pleasant 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 flop my Mouth;
So fhouldft thou either turn my flying Soul,
Or I fhould breathe it fo into thy Body,
And then it liv'd in sweet Elysium.
To die by thee, were but to die in jeft,
From thee to die, were torture more than Death;
Or let me ftay, 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
r from thee:
For wherefoe'er thou art in this World's Globe,
I'll have an Iris that fhall find thee out.
.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 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 Treafurej Enough to purchafe fuch another Ifland,
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 fpeaks 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 thew 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 upright,
Like Lime-twigs fet to catch my winged Soul:
Give me fme 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 butie medling Fiend,
That lays ftrong Siege unto this Wretch's Soul,
And from his Bofom purge this black defpair.
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 Pleafure be. Lord Cardinal, if thou think'st on Heav'n's blifs, Hold up thy Hand, make fignal of thy Hope. He dies, and makes no Sign!
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 clofe,
And let us all to Meditation.
[Exeunt. Alarum. Fight at Sea. Ordnance goes off. Enter Captain, Whitmore, and other Pirates, with Suffolk and others Prifoners.
Cap. The gaudy blabbing and remorfeful Day, Is crept into the Bofom of the Sea:(]
And now loud howling Wolves aroufe the Jades a
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, la
For whilft our Pinnace anchors in the Downs,""
Here fhall they make their Ranfom on the Sand,
Or with their Blood ftain this difcoloured fhore.
Mafter, this Prisoner freely give I thee.
And thou that art his Mate, make Boot of this:
The other, Walter Whitmore, is thy fhare.
1 Gen. What is my Ranfom, Mafter, let me know. Maft. A thousand Crowns, or else 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; [To Suffolk.
And fo fhould 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 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 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 these Rags are no part of the Duke.
Cap. But Jove was never flain as thou fhalt be,
Obfcure and low fie Swain-King Henry's Blood!
Suf. The honourable Blood of Lancaster
Muft not be shed 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.
VOL. IV.
|