No; many a Pound of my own proper store,
Because I would not tax the needy Commons,
Have I disburfed to the Garrisons,
And never ask'd for Reftitution.
Car. It ferves you well, my Lord, to fay fo much.
Glo. I fay no more than Truth, fo help me God.
York. In your Protectorfhip you did devife
Strange Tortures for Offenders, never heard of,
That England was defam'd by Tyranny.
Glo. Why 'tis well known, that whiles I was Protector,
Pity was all the fault that was in me:
For I fhould melt at an Offender's Tears,
And lowly Words were ranfom for their fault:
Unless it were a bloody Murtherer,
Or foul felonious Thief, that fleec'd poor Paffengers,
I never gave them condign Punishment.
Murther indeed, that bloody Sin, I tortur'd
Above the Felon, or what Trefpafs elfe.
Suf. My Lord, these faults are eafie, quickly anfwer'd;
But mightier Crimes are laid unto your Charge,
Whereof you cannot eafily purge your
I do arreft you in his Highness Name,
And here commit you to my Lord Cardinal
To keep, until your
further time of Trial.
K. Henry. My Lord of Glofter, 'tis my fpecial hope,
That you will clear your felf from all fufpicion,
My Confcience tells me you are Innocent.
Glo. Ah gracious Lord, thefe days are dangerous:
Virtue is choak'd with foul Ambition,
And Charity chac'd hence by Rancor's Hand;
Foul Subornation is predominant,
And Equity exil'd your Highness Land.
I know, their Complot is to have my Life:
And if my Death might make this Inland happy,
And prove the period of their Tyranny,
I would expend it with all willingnels.
But mine is made the Prologue to their Play:
For thousands more, that yet fufpect no peril,
Will not conclude their plotted Tragedy.
Beauford's red fparkling Eyes blab his Heart's malice,"
And Suffolk's cloudy, Brow his ftormy hate;
Sharp Buckingham unburthens with his Tongue
The envious load that lyes upon his Heart:
And dogged York, that reaches at the Moon,
Whofe over-weening Arm I have pluck'd back,
By falfe accufe doth level at my Life.
And you, my Sovereign Lady, with the reft,
Caufelefs have laid Difgraces on my Head,
And with your best endeavours have stirr'd up
My liefeft Liege to be mine Enemy:
Ay, all of you have laid your Heads together,
My felf had notice of your Conventicles,
And all to make away my guiltless Life.
I fhall not want falfe Witness to condemn me,
Nor ftore of Treafons to augment my Guilt:
The ancient Proverb will be well effected,
A Staff is quickly found to beat a Dog.
Car. My Liege, his railing is intolerable.
If thofe that care to keep your Royal Perfon
From Treafon's fecret Knife, and Traitor's Rage,
Be thus upbraided, chid and rated at,
And the Offender granted Scope of Speech,
'Twill make them cool in Zeal unto your Grace.
Suf. Hath he not twit our Sovereign Lady here
With ignominious Words, though Clarkly coucht?
As if the had fuborned some to swear
Falfe Allegations to o'erthrow his State.
2. Mar. But I can give the Lofer leave to chide. Glo. Far truer fpoke than meant; I lofe indeed, Befhrew the winners, for they play'd me false; And well fuch Lofers may have leave to speak.
Buck. He'll wreft the fenfe, and hold us here all day Lord Cardinal, he is your Prifoner.
Car. Sirs, take away the Duke, and guard him sure.
Glo. Ah, thus King Henry throws away his Crutch,
Before his Legs be firm to bear his Body;
Thus is the Shepherd beaten from thy fide,
And Wolves are gnarling, who fhall gnaw thee firft.
Ah that my fear were falfe, ah that it were:
For good King Henry, thy Decay I fear..
K. Henry. My Lords, what to your Wisdom feemeth beft, Do or undo, as if our felf were here.
Q. Mar. What, will your Highness leave the Parliament ? K. Henry. Ay Margaret: My Heart is drown'd with Grief, Whofe Flood begins to flow within my Eyes;
My Body round engirt with Mifery;
For what's more miferable than Discontent?
Ah Uncle, Humphry, in thy Face I fee
The Map of Honour, Truth, and Loyalty:
And yet, good Humphry, is the hour to come,
That e'er I prov'd thee falfe, or fear'd thy Faith.
What lowring Star now envies thy estate?
That thefe great Lords, and Margaret our Queen,
Do feek fubverfion of thy harmlets Life,
That never didft them wrong, nor no Man wrong:
And as the Butcher takes away the Calf,
And binds the Wretch, and beats it when it strays,
Bearing it to the bloody Slaughter-house;
Even fo remorflefs have they born him hence:
And as the Dam runs lowing up and down,
Looking the way her harmless young one went,
And can do nought but wail her Darling's lofs;
Even fo my felf bewail good Glofter's cafe,
With fad unhelpful Tears; and with dim'd Eyes,
Look after him, and cannot do him good:
So mighty are his vowed Enemies.
His Fortunes I will weep, and 'twixt each Groan,
Say, who's a Traitor? Glo'fter he is none.
Cold Snow melts with the Sun's hot Beams,
Henry, my Lord, is cold in great Affairs,
Too full of foolish pity; and Glo'ster's fhew
Beguiles him, as the mournful Crocodile
With forrow fnares relenting Paffengers:
Or as the Snake, roll'd in a flowry Bank,
With fhining checker'd Slough, doth sting a Child,
That for the Beauty thinks it excellent.
Believe me, Lords, were none more wife than 1,
And yet herein I judge my own Wit good,
This Glofter fhould be quickly rid the World,
To rid us from the fear we have of him.
Car. That he should die, is worthy policy,
But yet we want a colour for his Death:
Tis meet he be condemn'd by course of Law.
Suf. But in my Mind, that were no policy;
The King will labour still to fave his Life,
The Commons haply rife to fave his Life;
And yet we have but trivial Argument,
More than Miftruft, that fhews him worthy Death.
York. So that by this, you would not have him die.
Suf. Ah York, no Man alive, fo fain as I.
York. 'Tis York that hath more reason for his Death:
But my Lord Cardinal, and you my Lord of Suffolk,
Say as you think, and fpeak it from your Souls:
Wer't not all one, an empty Eagle were fet
To guard the Chicken from a hungry Kite,
As place Duke Humphry for the King's Protector?
Q. Mar. So the poor Chicken fhould be fure of Death
Suf. Madam, 'tis true; and wer't not madness then,
To make the Fox Surveyor of the Fold?
Who being accus'd a crafty Murtherer,
His Guilt Thould be but idly pofted over,
Because his purpofe is not executed.
No; let him die, in that he is a Fox,
By Nature prov'd an Enemy to the Flock,
Before his Chaps be ftain'd with Crimson Blood,
As Humphry prov'd by Reasons to my Liege.
And do not ftand on Quillets how to flay him:
Be it by Ginns, by Snares, by Subtility,
Sleeping, or weaking, 'tis no matter how,
So he be dead; for that is good deceit
Which mates him firft, that first intends deceit.
Mar. Thrice noble Suffolk, 'tis refolutely spoke."
Suf. Not refolute, except fo much were done;
For things are often spoke, and feldom meant;
But that my Heart accordeth with my Tongue,
Seeing the deed is meritorious,
And to preserve my Sovereign from his Foe,
Say but the word, and I will be his Prieft,
Car. But I would have him dead, my Lord of Suffolk,
you can take due Orders for a Priest:
Say you confent, and cenfure well the Deed,
And I'll provide his Executioner,
I tender fo the fafety of my Liege.
Suf. Here is my Hand, the Deed is worthy doing. 2. Mar. And fo fay I.
York. And I; and now we three have spoke it, It skills not greatly who impugns our doom. Enter a Poft.
Poft. Great Lords, from Ireland am I come amain
To fignifie that Rebels there are up,
And put the Englishmen unto the Sword;
Send Succours, Lords, and ftop the Rage betime;
Before the wound do grow incurable;
For being green, there is great hope of help.
Car. A Breach that craves a quick expedient stop,
What Counsel give you in this weighty Caufe?
York. That Somerset be fent a Regent thither:
'Tis meet that lucky Ruler be employ'd,
Witness the Fortune he hath had in France.
Som. If York, with all his far-fet Policy,
Had been the Regent there, instead of me,
He never would have staid in France fo long.
York. No, not to lose it all, as thou hast done.
I rather would have loft my Life betimes,
Than bring a burthen of Difhonour home,
By ftaying there fo long, till all were loft.
Shew me one Scar character'd on thy Skin:
Mens Flesh preferv'd fo whole, do feldom win.
9. Mar. Nay then, this fpark will prove a raging Fire,
If Wind and Fuel be brought to feed it with:"
No more, good York; fweet Somerfet be still,
Thy fortune, York, hadft thou been Regent there,
Might haply have prov'd far worse than his.
York. What, worse than naught? nay, then a fhame take all Som. And in the number, thee that wifheft Shame. Car. My Lord of York, try what your Fortune is. Th' uncivil Kerns of Ireland are in Arms.
And temper Clay with Blood of Englishmen.
|