Or I should breathe it fo into thy body,
And then it liv'd in fweet Elyftum
To die by thee were but to die in jeft,
From thee to die were torture more than deale
Oh! let me ftay, befal what may befal.
Q. Mar. Away! though parting be. 9'a cov
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 along 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.
Q. Mar. This way for me.
Enter King Henry, Salisbury, and Warwick, to the Cardinal in Bed.
K. Henry. HOW fares my Lord? speak, Beaufort, to
Car. If thou beeft Death, I'll give thee England's treafure, Enough to purchase such 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. Beaufort, it is thy Sovereign fpeaks 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'r they will or no?
Oh, torture me no more, I will confess
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 ftrong poison 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 meddling 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 pass peaceably.
K. Henry. Peace to his foul, if God's good pleasure be!
Lord Cardinal, if thou think'ft on heaven's blifs,
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 monstrous life.
K. Henry. Forbear to judge, for we are finners all.
Clofe up his eyes, and draw the curtain clofe,
And let us all to meditation.
Alarum. Fight at Sea. Ordnance goes off. Enter Captain, Whitmore, and other Pirates, with Suffolk and others Prisoners.
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 shall 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 thoufand 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 thousand And bear the name and port of gentlemen? Cut both the villains throats, for die you fhall: Nor can thofe lives which we have lost in fight, Be counterpois'd with fuch a petty fum.
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 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 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 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 thefe rags are no part of the Duke.
Jove fometimes went aiguis'd, and why not I?
Cap. But Jove was never flain, as thou shalt be.
Suf. Obfcure and lowly fwain, King Henry's blood,
The honourable blood of Lancaster,
Muit not be fhed by fuch a jaded groom:
Haft thou not kiss'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-fal'n,
Ay, and allay this thy abortive pride :
How in our voiding lobby haft thou ftood,
And duly waited for my coming forth!
This hand of mine hath writ in thy behalf,
And therefore shall it charm thy riotous tongue.
Whit. Speak, Captain, fhall I ftab the forlorn fwain?
Cap. First let my words ftab him, as he hath me.
Suf. Bafe flave, thy words are blunt, and fo art thou.
Cap. Convey him hence, and on our long-boat's fide
Strike off his head.
Suf. Thou dar'ft not for thy own.
Cap. Poole, Sir Poole? Lord?
Ay, kennelpuddle
puddle - fink, whofe filth and dirt
Troubles the filver fpring where England drinks:
Now will I dam up this thy yawning mouth,
For fwallowing up the treasure of the realm.
Thy lips that kifs'd the Queen, fhall fweep the ground;
And thou that fmil'dft at good Duke Humphry's death,
Against the fenfelefs winds fhalt grin in vain,
Who in contempt fhall hifs at thee again.
And wedded be thou to the hags of hell,
For daring to affie a mighty Lord
Unto the daughter of a worthless King,
Having nor fubject, wealth, nor diadem!
By devilish policy art thou grown great,
And, like ambitious Sylla, over-gorg'd
With gobbets of thy mother's bleeding heart.
By thee Anjou and Maine were fold to France;
The false revolting Normans thorough thee
Difdain to call us Lord; and Picardie
Hath flain their governors, furpriz'd our forts,
And fent the ragged foldiers wounded home.
The princely Warwick, and the Nevills all,
(Whofe dreadful fwords were never drawn in vain)
As hating thee, are rifing up in arms.
And now the house of York (thrust from the crown
By shameful murther of a guiltlefs King,
And lofty proud incroaching tyranny,)
Burns with revenging fire; whofe hopeful colours
Advance a half-fac'd fun striving to fhine;
Under the which is writ, Invitis nubibus.
The Commons here in Kent are up
And to conclude, reproach and beggary
Are crept into the palace of our King,
And all by thee. Away! convey him hence.
Suf. O that I were a God, to fhoot forth thunder Upon these paultry, fervile, abject drudges!
Small things make base men proud. This villain here,
Being captain of a pinnace, threatens more
Than Bardylisa the ftrong Illyrian Pirate.
Drones fuck not eagles blood, but rob bee-hives.
It is impoffible that I fhould die
By fuch a lowly vaffal as thy felf.
Thy words move rage and not remorfe in me:
(a) Bardylis was the King of Illyria whom Philip of Macedon conquer'd. Diodor. Sic. lib. 16. The reason why he is call'd a Pirate is this, that it was the character of the whole Illyrian nation (a powerful and a maritime People) to live by rapine and plunder. Illyrios ex rapto vivere adfuetos. Quint. Curt. lib. 3. c. 10.
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