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.
Oh! let me stay, befal what may befal.

2. 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.

Suf. I go.

Mar. And take my heart with thee.

Suf A jewel lock'd into the wofull'st casket That ever did contain a thing of worth.

Even as a splitted bark, fo funder we;

This way fall I to death.

2. Mar. This way for me.

[Exeunt feverally.

SCENE X. The Cardinal's bedchamber.

Enter King Henry, Salisbury, and Warwick, to the Cardinal in Bed.

K. Henry. How fares my Lord? speak, Beaufort, to thy fovereign.

Gar. If thou be'ft Death, I'll give thee England's Enough to purchafe fuch another ifland, So thou wilt let me live, and feel no pain.

[treafure,

K. Henry. Ah, what a fign it is of evil life, Where death's approach is feen fo terrible! : War: Beaufort, it is thy Sovereign 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 whe'r they will or no? Oh, torture me no more, I will confefs "Alive again? then fhew me where he is "I'll give a thoufand pound to look upon him"He hath no eyes, the duit 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

66

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; VOL. V.

H

Oh,

3

Oh, beat away the bufy, meddling fiend,
That lays ftrong fiege unto this wretch's foul,
And from his bofom purge this black despair.) s
War. See how the pangs of death do make him grin !
Sal. Difturb him not, let him pass peaceably Sn
K. Henry. Peace to his foul, if God's good pleafure be
Lord Cardinal, if thou think'ft on heav'n's bless,
Hold up thy hand, make signal of thy hope AZ
He dies, and makes no fign! O God, forgive him. §. I
War. So bad a death argues a monftrous life.
K. Henry. Forbear to judge, for we are finners all,11
Close up his eyes, and draw the curtain close, \2
And let us all to meditation.

[Exeunt

Alarum. Fight at Sea. Ordnance goes off. Enter Captain, Whitmore, and other pirates, with Suffolk and other prifoners.

Capt."

ઃઃ

T

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 tragic melancholy night; "Who with their drowsy, flow, and flagging wings, Clip dead men's graves, and from their mifty jaws "Breathe foul contagious darknefs in the air. Therefore bring forth the foldiers of our prize: For whilft our pinnace anchors in the Downs, Here fhall they make their ranfom on the fand, Or with their blood stain this difcolour'd 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.

T

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 your's. Whit. What think you much to pay two thousand And bear the name and port of gentlemen? [crowns, Cut both the villains' throats, for die you fhall: Nor can thofe lives which we have loft in fight,

Be

Be counterpois'd with fuch a pretty fum.

1 Gent. I'll give it, Sir, and therefore spare my life. 2 Gent. And fo will I, and write home for it straight. 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.

Capt. Be not so rash, také 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 ftar'ft thou? what, doth death affright? Suf. Thy name affrights me, in whose 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;
Never yet did base dishonour 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 deface'd,
And I proclaim'd a coward through the world!

Suf. Stay, Whitmore; for they 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 difguis'd, and why not I?
Capt. But Jove was never flain, as thou fhalt be.
Suf. Obfcure and lowly fwain, King Henry's blood,
The honourable blood of Lancaster,

Must not be thed by fuch a jaded groom.

Huft thou not kifs'd thy hand, and held my ftirrup
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?.
Rémeniber it, and let it make thee crelt-fall'n;
Ay, and allay this thy abortive pride.
How in our voiding lobby hast thou food,
And duly waited for my coming forth?
This hand of mine hath writ in thy behalf,

And therefore fhall it charm thy riotous tongue.
Whit. Speak, Captain, fhall I ftab the forlorn swain?
Capt. First let my words ftab him, as he hath me.
Suf. Bafe flave, thy words are blunt, and fo art thou.
Capt. Convey him hence, and on our long-boat's fide
Strike off his head.

Suf. Thou dar'st not for thy own.
Capt. Poole, Sir Poole

Lord?

Ay, kennel-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'ft at good Duke Humphry's death,
Against the fenfeless winds fhall grin in vain,
Who in contempt fhalt 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 gorge'd
With gobbets of thy mother's bleeding heart.
By thee Anjou and Maine were fold to France;
The falfe revolting Normans, thorough thee,
Difdain to call us Lord; and Picardy
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 fhameful murther of a guiltless King,

And lofty proud incroaching tyranny)

Burns with revenging fire; whofe hopeful colours
Advance a half-face'd fun ftriving to fhine;
Under the which is writ, Invitis nubibus,
The commons here in Kent are up in arms:
And to conclude, reproach and beggary
Is 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

Upon these paltry, fervile, abject drudges

!

Small things make bafe men proud. This villain here, Being captain of a pinnace, threatens more,

*

Than Bargulus 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 thyfelf.

Thy words move rage, and not remorfe in me
I go of meffage from the Queen to France;
I charge thee waft me fafely cross the channel.
Capt. Walter

Whit. Come, Suffolk, I must waft thee to thy death. Suf. Pana gelidus timor occupat artus: 'tis thee I fear. Whit. Thou fhalt have caufe to fear before I leave thee. What, are ye daunted now? now will ye ftoop?

1 Gen. My gracious Lord, intreat him, fpeak him fair,

Suf. Suffolk's imperial tongue is ftern and rough,
Us'd to command, untaught to plead for favour.
Far be it we fhould honour fuch as thefe

With humble fuit: no; rather let my head
Stoop to the block, than these knees bow to any,
Save to the God of heav'n, and to my King;
And fooner dance upon a bloody pole,
Than ftand uncover'd to the vulgar groom.
True nobility is exempt from fear :

More can I bear than you dare execute.

Capt. Hale him away, and let him talk no more.
Suf. Come, foldiers, fhew what cruelty you can,
That this my death may never be forgot,
Great men oft die by vile Bezonians.
A Roman fworder and Bandetto flave

Murther'd fweet Tully; Brutus' bastard hand
Stabb'd Julius Cæfar; favage islanders

Pompey the Great; and Suffolk dies by pirates.

[Exit Walter Whitmore with Suffolk. Capt. And as for thofe whofe ranfom we have fet, It is our pleasure one of them depart;

Therefore come you with us, and let him go.

[Ex. Captain and the reft.

Manet