Chapter 104
Queene. What, will your Highnesse leaue the Parliament? King. I Margaret: my heart is drown'd with griefe, Whose floud begins to flowe within mine eyes; My Body round engyrt with miserie: For what's more miserable then Discontent? Ah Vnckle Humfrey, in thy face I see The Map of Honor, Truth, and Loyaltie: And yet, good Humfrey, is the houre to come, That ere I prou'd thee false, or fear'd thy faith. What lowring Starre now enuies thy estate? That these great Lords, and Margaret our Queene, Doe seeke subuersion of thy harmelesse Life. Thou neuer didst them wrong, nor no man wrong: And as the Butcher takes away the Calfe, And binds the Wretch, and beats it when it strayes, Bearing it to the bloody Slaughter-house; Euen so remorselesse haue they borne him hence: And as the Damme runnes lowing vp and downe, Looking the way her harmelesse young one went, And can doe naught but wayle her Darlings losse; Euen so my selfe bewayles good Glosters case With sad vnhelpefull teares, and with dimn'd eyes; Looke after him, and cannot doe him good: So mightie are his vowed Enemies. His fortunes I will weepe, and 'twixt each groane, Say, who's a Traytor? Gloster he is none. Enter.
Queene. Free Lords: Cold Snow melts with the Sunnes hot Beames: Henry, my Lord, is cold in great Affaires, Too full of foolish pittie: and Glosters shew Beguiles him, as the mournefull Crocodile With sorrow snares relenting passengers; Or as the Snake, roll'd in a flowring Banke, With shining checker'd slough doth sting a Child, That for the beautie thinkes it excellent. Beleeue me Lords, were none more wise then I, And yet herein I iudge mine owne Wit good; This Gloster should be quickly rid the World, To rid vs from the feare we haue of him
Card. That he should dye, is worthie pollicie, But yet we want a Colour for his death: 'Tis meet he be condemn'd by course of Law
Suff. But in my minde, that were no pollicie: The King will labour still to saue his Life, The Commons haply rise, to saue his Life; And yet we haue but triuiall argument, More then mistrust, that shewes him worthy death
Yorke. So that by this, you would not haue him dye
Suff. Ah Yorke, no man aliue, so faine as I
Yorke. 'Tis Yorke that hath more reason for his death. But my Lord Cardinall, and you my Lord of Suffolke, Say as you thinke, and speake it from your Soules: Wer't not all one, an emptie Eagle were set, To guard the Chicken from a hungry Kyte, As place Duke Humfrey for the Kings Protector? Queene. So the poore Chicken should be sure of death
Suff. Madame 'tis true: and wer't not madnesse then, To make the Fox surueyor of the Fold? Who being accus'd a craftie Murtherer, His guilt should be but idly posted ouer, Because his purpose is not executed. No: let him dye, in that he is a Fox, By nature prou'd an Enemie to the Flock, Before his Chaps be stayn'd with Crimson blood, As Humfrey prou'd by Reasons to my Liege. And doe not stand on Quillets how to slay him: Be it by Gynnes, by Snares, by Subtletie, Sleeping, or Waking, 'tis no matter how, So he be dead; for that is good deceit, Which mates him first, that first intends deceit
Queene. Thrice Noble Suffolke, 'tis resolutely spoke
Suff. Not resolute, except so much were done, For things are often spoke, and seldome meant, But that my heart accordeth with my tongue, Seeing the deed is meritorious, And to preserue my Soueraigne from his Foe, Say but the word, and I will be his Priest
Card. But I would haue him dead, my Lord of Suffolke, Ere you can take due Orders for a Priest: Say you consent, and censure well the deed, And Ile prouide his Executioner, I tender so the safetie of my Liege
Suff. Here is my Hand, the deed is worthy doing
Queene. And so say I
Yorke. And I: and now we three haue spoke it, It skills not greatly who impugnes our doome. Enter a Poste.
Post. Great Lords, from Ireland am I come amaine, To signifie, that Rebels there are vp, And put the Englishmen vnto the Sword. Send Succours (Lords) and stop the Rage betime, Before the Wound doe grow vncurable; For being greene, there is great hope of helpe
Card. A Breach that craues a quick expedient stoppe. What counsaile giue you in this weightie cause? Yorke. That Somerset be sent as Regent thither: 'Tis meet that luckie Ruler be imploy'd, Witnesse the fortune he hath had in France
Som. If Yorke, with all his farre-fet pollicie, Had beene the Regent there, in stead of me, He neuer would haue stay'd in France so long
Yorke. No, not to lose it all, as thou hast done. I rather would haue lost my Life betimes, Then bring a burthen of dis-honour home, By staying there so long, till all were lost. Shew me one skarre, character'd on thy Skinne, Mens flesh preseru'd so whole, doe seldome winne
Qu. Nay then, this sparke will proue a raging fire, If Wind and Fuell be brought, to feed it with: No more, good Yorke; sweet Somerset be still. Thy fortune, Yorke, hadst thou beene Regent there, Might happily haue prou'd farre worse then his
Yorke. What, worse then naught? nay, then a shame take all
Somerset. And in the number, thee, that wishest shame
Card. My Lord of Yorke, trie what your fortune is: Th' vnciuill Kernes of Ireland are in Armes, And temper Clay with blood of Englishmen. To Ireland will you leade a Band of men, Collected choycely, from each Countie some, And trie your hap against the Irishmen? Yorke. I will, my Lord, so please his Maiestie
Suff. Why, our Authoritie is his consent, And what we doe establish, he confirmes: Then, Noble Yorke, take thou this Taske in hand
Yorke. I am content: Prouide me Souldiers, Lords, Whiles I take order for mine owne affaires
Suff. A charge, Lord Yorke, that I will see perform'd. But now returne we to the false Duke Humfrey
Card. No more of him: for I will deale with him, That henceforth he shall trouble vs no more: And so breake off, the day is almost spent, Lord Suffolke, you and I must talke of that euent
Yorke. My Lord of Suffolke, within foureteene dayes At Bristow I expect my Souldiers, For there Ile shippe them all for Ireland
Suff. Ile see it truly done, my Lord of Yorke.
Exeunt.
Manet Yorke.
Yorke. Now Yorke, or neuer, steele thy fearfull thoughts, And change misdoubt to resolution; Be that thou hop'st to be, or what thou art; Resigne to death, it is not worth th' enioying: Let pale-fac't feare keepe with the meane-borne man, And finde no harbor in a Royall heart. Faster the[n] Spring-time showres, comes thoght on thoght, And not a thought, but thinkes on Dignitie. My Brayne, more busie then the laboring Spider, Weaues tedious Snares to trap mine Enemies. Well Nobles, well: 'tis politikely done, To send me packing with an Hoast of men: I feare me, you but warme the starued Snake, Who cherisht in your breasts, will sting your hearts. 'Twas men I lackt, and you will giue them me; I take it kindly: yet be well assur'd, You put sharpe Weapons in a mad-mans hands. Whiles I in Ireland nourish a mightie Band, I will stirre vp in England some black Storme, Shall blowe ten thousand Soules to Heauen, or Hell: And this fell Tempest shall not cease to rage, Vntill the Golden Circuit on my Head, Like to the glorious Sunnes transparant Beames, Doe calme the furie of this mad-bred Flawe. And for a minister of my intent, I haue seduc'd a head-strong Kentishman, Iohn Cade of Ashford, To make Commotion, as full well he can, Vnder the title of Iohn Mortimer. In Ireland haue I seene this stubborne Cade Oppose himselfe against a Troupe of Kernes, And fought so long, till that his thighes with Darts Were almost like a sharpe-quill'd Porpentine: And in the end being rescued, I haue seene Him capre vpright, like a wilde Morisco, Shaking the bloody Darts, as he his Bells. Full often, like a shag-hayr'd craftie Kerne, Hath he conuersed with the Enemie, And vndiscouer'd, come to me againe, And giuen me notice of their Villanies. This Deuill here shall be my substitute; For that Iohn Mortimer, which now is dead, In face, in gate, in speech he doth resemble. By this, I shall perceiue the Commons minde, How they affect the House and Clayme of Yorke. Say he be taken, rackt, and tortured; I know, no paine they can inflict vpon him, Will make him say, I mou'd him to those Armes. Say that he thriue, as 'tis great like he will, Why then from Ireland come I with my strength, And reape the Haruest which that Rascall sow'd. For Humfrey; being dead, as he shall be, And Henry put apart: the next for me. Enter.
Enter two or three running ouer the Stage, from the Murther of Duke Humfrey.
1. Runne to my Lord of Suffolke: let him know We haue dispatcht the Duke, as he commanded
2. Oh, that it were to doe: what haue we done? Didst euer heare a man so penitent? Enter Suffolke.
1. Here comes my Lord
Suff. Now Sirs, haue you dispatcht this thing? 1. I, my good Lord, hee's dead
Suff. Why that's well said. Goe, get you to my House, I will reward you for this venturous deed: The King and all the Peeres are here at hand. Haue you layd faire the Bed? Is all things well, According as I gaue directions? 1. 'Tis, my good Lord
Suff. Away, be gone.
Exeunt.
Sound Trumpets. Enter the King, the Queene, Cardinall, Suffolke, Somerset, with Attendants.
King. Goe call our Vnckle to our presence straight: Say, we intend to try his Grace to day, If he be guiltie, as 'tis published
Suff. Ile call him presently, my Noble Lord. Enter
King. Lords take your places: and I pray you all Proceed no straiter 'gainst our Vnckle Gloster, Then from true euidence, of good esteeme, He be approu'd in practise culpable
Queene. God forbid any Malice should preuayle, That faultlesse may condemne a Noble man: Pray God he may acquit him of suspition
King. I thanke thee Nell, these wordes content mee much. Enter Suffolke.
How now? why look'st thou pale? why tremblest thou? Where is our Vnckle? what's the matter, Suffolke? Suff. Dead in his Bed, my Lord: Gloster is dead
Queene. Marry God forfend
Card. Gods secret Iudgement: I did dreame to Night, The Duke was dumbe, and could not speake a word.
King sounds.
Qu. How fares my Lord? Helpe Lords, the King is dead
Som. Rere vp his Body, wring him by the Nose
Qu. Runne, goe, helpe, helpe: Oh Henry ope thine eyes
Suff. He doth reuiue againe, Madame be patient
King. Oh Heauenly God
Qu. How fares my gracious Lord? Suff. Comfort my Soueraigne, gracious Henry comfort
King. What, doth my Lord of Suffolke comfort me? Came he right now to sing a Rauens Note, Whose dismall tune bereft my Vitall powres: And thinkes he, that the chirping of a Wren, By crying comfort from a hollow breast, Can chase away the first-conceiued sound? Hide not thy poyson with such sugred words, Lay not thy hands on me: forbeare I say, Their touch affrights me as a Serpents sting. Thou balefull Messenger, out of my sight: Vpon thy eye-balls, murderous Tyrannie Sits in grim Maiestie, to fright the World. Looke not vpon me, for thine eyes are wounding; Yet doe not goe away: come Basiliske, And kill the innocent gazer with thy sight: For in the shade of death, I shall finde ioy; In life, but double death, now Gloster's dead
Queene. Why do you rate my Lord of Suffolke thus? Although the Duke was enemie to him, Yet he most Christian-like laments his death: And for my selfe, Foe as he was to me, Might liquid teares, or heart-offending groanes, Or blood-consuming sighes recall his Life; I would be blinde with weeping, sicke with grones, Looke pale as Prim-rose with blood-drinking sighes, And all to haue the Noble Duke aliue. What know I how the world may deeme of me? For it is knowne we were but hollow Friends: It may be iudg'd I made the Duke away, So shall my name with Slanders tongue be wounded, And Princes Courts be fill'd with my reproach: This get I by his death: Aye me vnhappie, To be a Queene, and Crown'd with infamie
King. Ah woe is me for Gloster, wretched man
Queen. Be woe for me, more wretched then he is. What, Dost thou turne away, and hide thy face? I am no loathsome Leaper, looke on me. What? Art thou like the Adder waxen deafe? Be poysonous too, and kill thy forlorne Queene. Is all thy comfort shut in Glosters Tombe? Why then Dame Elianor was neere thy ioy. Erect his Statue, and worship it, And make my Image but an Ale-house signe. Was I for this nye wrack'd vpon the Sea, And twice by aukward winde from Englands banke Droue backe againe vnto my Natiue Clime. What boaded this? but well fore-warning winde Did seeme to say, seeke not a Scorpions Nest, Nor set no footing on this vnkinde Shore. What did I then? But curst the gentle gusts, And he that loos'd them forth their Brazen Caues, And bid them blow towards Englands blessed shore, Or turne our Sterne vpon a dreadfull Rocke: Yet aeolus would not be a murtherer, But left that hatefull office vnto thee. The pretty vaulting Sea refus'd to drowne me, Knowing that thou wouldst haue me drown'd on shore With teares as salt as Sea, through thy vnkindnesse. The splitting Rockes cowr'd in the sinking sands, And would not dash me with their ragged sides, Because thy flinty heart more hard then they, Might in thy Pallace, perish Elianor. As farre as I could ken thy Chalky Cliffes, When from thy Shore, the Tempest beate vs backe, I stood vpon the Hatches in the storme: And when the duskie sky, began to rob My earnest-gaping-sight of thy Lands view, I tooke a costly Iewell from my necke, A Hart it was bound in with Diamonds, And threw it towards thy Land: The Sea receiu'd it, And so I wish'd thy body might my Heart: And euen with this, I lost faire Englands view, And bid mine eyes be packing with my Heart, And call'd them blinde and duskie Spectacles, For loosing ken of Albions wished Coast. How often haue I tempted Suffolkes tongue (The agent of thy foule inconstancie) To sit and watch me as Ascanius did, When he to madding Dido would vnfold His Fathers Acts, commenc'd in burning Troy. Am I not witcht like her? Or thou not false like him? Aye me, I can no more: Dye Elinor, For Henry weepes, that thou dost liue so long.
Noyse within. Enter Warwicke, and many Commons.
War. It is reported, mighty Soueraigne, That good Duke Humfrey Traiterously is murdred By Suffolke, and the Cardinall Beaufords meanes: The Commons like an angry Hiue of Bees That want their Leader, scatter vp and downe, And care not who they sting in his reuenge. My selfe haue calm'd their spleenfull mutinie, Vntill they heare the order of his death
King. That he is dead good Warwick, 'tis too true, But how he dyed, God knowes, not Henry: Enter his Chamber, view his breathlesse Corpes, And comment then vpon his sodaine death
War. That shall I do my Liege; Stay Salsburie With the rude multitude, till I returne
King. O thou that iudgest all things, stay my thoghts: My thoughts, that labour to perswade my soule, Some violent hands were laid on Humfries life: If my suspect be false, forgiue me God, For iudgement onely doth belong to thee: Faine would I go to chafe his palie lips, With twenty thousand kisses, and to draine Vpon his face an Ocean of salt teares, To tell my loue vnto his dumbe deafe trunke, And with my fingers feele his hand, vnfeeling: But all in vaine are these meane Obsequies,
Bed put forth.
And to suruey his dead and earthy Image: What were it but to make my sorrow greater? Warw. Come hither gracious Soueraigne, view this body
King. That is to see how deepe my graue is made, For with his soule fled all my worldly solace: For seeing him, I see my life in death
War. As surely as my soule intends to liue With that dread King that tooke our state vpon him, To free vs from his Fathers wrathfull curse, I do beleeue that violent hands were laid Vpon the life of this thrice-famed Duke
Suf. A dreadfull Oath, sworne with a solemn tongue: What instance giues Lord Warwicke for his vow
War. See how the blood is setled in his face. Oft haue I seene a timely-parted Ghost, Of ashy semblance, meager, pale, and bloodlesse, Being all descended to the labouring heart, Who in the Conflict that it holds with death, Attracts the same for aydance 'gainst the enemy, Which with the heart there cooles, and ne're returneth, To blush and beautifie the Cheeke againe. But see, his face is blacke, and full of blood: His eye-balles further out, than when he liued, Staring full gastly, like a strangled man: His hayre vprear'd, his nostrils stretcht with strugling: His hands abroad display'd, as one that graspt And tugg'd for Life, and was by strength subdude. Looke on the sheets his haire (you see) is sticking, His well proportion'd Beard, made ruffe and rugged, Like to the Summers Corne by Tempest lodged: It cannot be but he was murdred heere, The least of all these signes were probable
Suf. Why Warwicke, who should do the D[uke]. to death? My selfe and Beauford had him in protection, And we I hope sir, are no murtherers
War. But both of you were vowed D[uke]. Humfries foes, And you (forsooth) had the good Duke to keepe: Tis like you would not feast him like a friend, And 'tis well seene, he found an enemy
Queen. Than you belike suspect these Noblemen, As guilty of Duke Humfries timelesse death
Warw. Who finds the Heyfer dead, and bleeding fresh, And sees fast-by, a Butcher with an Axe, But will suspect, 'twas he that made the slaughter? Who finds the Partridge in the Puttocks Nest, But may imagine how the Bird was dead, Although the Kyte soare with vnbloudied Beake? Euen so suspitious is this Tragedie
Qu. Are you the Butcher, Suffolk? where's your Knife? Is Beauford tearm'd a Kyte? where are his Tallons? Suff. I weare no Knife, to slaughter sleeping men, But here's a vengefull Sword, rusted with ease, That shall be scowred in his rancorous heart, That slanders me with Murthers Crimson Badge. Say, if thou dar'st, prowd Lord of Warwickshire, That I am faultie in Duke Humfreyes death
Warw. What dares not Warwick, if false Suffolke dare him? Qu. He dares not calme his contumelious Spirit, Nor cease to be an arrogant Controller, Though Suffolke dare him twentie thousand times
Warw. Madame be still: with reuerence may I say, For euery word you speake in his behalfe, Is slander to your Royall Dignitie
Suff. Blunt-witted Lord, ignoble in demeanor, If euer Lady wrong'd her Lord so much, Thy Mother tooke into her blamefull Bed Some sterne vntutur'd Churle; and Noble Stock Was graft with Crab-tree slippe, whose Fruit thou art, And neuer of the Neuils Noble Race
Warw. But that the guilt of Murther bucklers thee, And I should rob the Deaths-man of his Fee, Quitting thee thereby of ten thousand shames, And that my Soueraignes presence makes me milde, I would, false murd'rous Coward, on thy Knee Make thee begge pardon for thy passed speech, And say, it was thy Mother that thou meant'st, That thou thy selfe wast borne in Bastardie; And after all this fearefull Homage done, Giue thee thy hyre, and send thy Soule to Hell, Pernicious blood-sucker of sleeping men
Suff. Thou shalt be waking, while I shed thy blood, If from this presence thou dar'st goe with me
Warw. Away euen now, or I will drag thee hence: Vnworthy though thou art, Ile cope with thee, And doe some seruice to Duke Humfreyes Ghost.
Exeunt.
King. What stronger Brest-plate then a heart vntainted? Thrice is he arm'd, that hath his Quarrell iust; And he but naked, though lockt vp in Steele, Whose Conscience with Iniustice is corrupted.
A noyse within.
Queene. What noyse is this? Enter Suffolke and Warwicke, with their Weapons drawne.
King. Why how now Lords? Your wrathfull Weapons drawne, Here in our presence? Dare you be so bold? Why what tumultuous clamor haue we here? Suff. The trayt'rous Warwick, with the men of Bury, Set all vpon me, mightie Soueraigne. Enter Salisbury.
Salisb. Sirs stand apart, the King shall know your minde. Dread Lord, the Commons send you word by me, Vnlesse Lord Suffolke straight be done to death, Or banished faire Englands Territories, They will by violence teare him from your Pallace, And torture him with grieuous lingring death. They say, by him the good Duke Humfrey dy'de: They say, in him they feare your Highnesse death; And meere instinct of Loue and Loyaltie, Free from a stubborne opposite intent, As being thought to contradict your liking, Makes them thus forward in his Banishment. They say, in care of your most Royall Person, That if your Highnesse should intend to sleepe, And charge, that no man should disturbe your rest, In paine of your dislike, or paine of death; Yet not withstanding such a strait Edict, Were there a Serpent seene, with forked Tongue, That slyly glyded towards your Maiestie, It were but necessarie you were wak't: Least being suffer'd in that harmefull slumber, The mortall Worme might make the sleepe eternall. And therefore doe they cry, though you forbid, That they will guard you, where you will, or no, From such fell Serpents as false Suffolke is; With whose inuenomed and fatall sting, Your louing Vnckle, twentie times his worth, They say is shamefully bereft of life
Commons within. An answer from the King, my Lord of Salisbury
Suff. 'Tis like the Commons, rude vnpolisht Hindes, Could send such Message to their Soueraigne: But you, my Lord, were glad to be imploy'd, To shew how queint an Orator you are. But all the Honor Salisbury hath wonne, Is, that he was the Lord Embassador, Sent from a sort of Tinkers to the King
Within. An answer from the King, or wee will all breake in
King. Goe Salisbury, and tell them all from me, I thanke them for their tender louing care; And had I not beene cited so by them, Yet did I purpose as they doe entreat: For sure, my thoughts doe hourely prophecie, Mischance vnto my State by Suffolkes meanes. And therefore by his Maiestie I sweare, Whose farre-vnworthie Deputie I am, He shall not breathe infection in this ayre, But three dayes longer, on the paine of death
Qu. Oh Henry, let me pleade for gentle Suffolke
King. Vngentle Queene, to call him gentle Suffolke. No more I say: if thou do'st pleade for him, Thou wilt but adde encrease vnto my Wrath. Had I but sayd, I would haue kept my Word; But when I sweare, it is irreuocable: If after three dayes space thou here bee'st found, On any ground that I am Ruler of, The World shall not be Ransome for thy Life. Come Warwicke, come good Warwicke, goe with mee, I haue great matters to impart to thee. Enter.
Qu. Mischance and Sorrow goe along with you, Hearts Discontent, and sowre Affliction, Be play-fellowes to keepe you companie: There's two of you, the Deuill make a third, And three-fold Vengeance tend vpon your steps
Suff. Cease, gentle Queene, these Execrations, And let thy Suffolke take his heauie leaue
Queen. Fye Coward woman, and soft harted wretch, Hast thou not spirit to curse thine enemy
Suf. A plague vpon them: wherefore should I cursse them? Would curses kill, as doth the Mandrakes grone, I would inuent as bitter searching termes, As curst, as harsh, and horrible to heare, Deliuer'd strongly through my fixed teeth, With full as many signes of deadly hate, As leane-fac'd enuy in her loathsome caue. My tongue should stumble in mine earnest words, Mine eyes should sparkle like the beaten Flint, Mine haire be fixt an end, as one distract: I, euery ioynt should seeme to curse and ban, And euen now my burthen'd heart would breake Should I not curse them. Poyson be their drinke. Gall, worse then Gall, the daintiest that they taste: Their sweetest shade, a groue of Cypresse Trees: Their cheefest Prospect, murd'ring Basiliskes: Their softest Touch, as smart as Lyzards stings: Their Musicke, frightfull as the Serpents hisse, And boading Screech-Owles, make the Consort full. All the foule terrors in darke seated hell - Q. Enough sweet Suffolke, thou torment'st thy selfe, And these dread curses like the Sunne 'gainst glasse, Or like an ouer-charged Gun, recoile, And turnes the force of them vpon thy selfe