Or I fhould breathe it fo into thy body,
And then it liv'd in sweet Elyfium.
To die by thee, were but to die in jest,
From thee to die, were torture more than death;
Oh! let me ftay, befal what may befal.
Q. 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.
Q. 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 splitted 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.
OW fares my lord? fpeak Beauford to thy Soveraign.
Car. If thou beeft Death, I'll give thee England's treafure,
Enough to purchase 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 tryal when you will.
Dy'd he not in his bed? where fhould he die ?
Can I make men live whe're they will or no?
Oh torture me no more, I will confefs-
Alive again? then shew me where he is:
I'll give a thousand 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 foul:
Give me fome drink, and bid th' apothecary
Bring the strong 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 bufie medling fiend,
That lays ftrong fiege unto this wretch's foul,
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 foul, if God's good pleafure be.
Lord Cardinal, if thou think'ft on heav'n's blifs,
Hold up thy hand, make signal 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 fea. 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
That drag the tragick melancholy night; Who with their drowfie, flow and flagging wings Clap 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 fhall they make their ranfom on the fand, Or with their blood ftain 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.
I Gen. What is my ranfom, mafter, let me know. Maft. A thousand crowns, or elfe lay down your head. Mate. And fo much fhail 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 fhall:
Nor can thofe lives which we have loft in fight,
Be counter-pois'd with fuch
I 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 ;
And fo fhould thefe, 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 ftart' 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 base dishonour blur our name,
But with our word 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 mufled up in rags?
Suf. Ay, but thefe rags are no part of the Duke.
Jove fometimes went difguis'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,
Muft not be shed by fuch a jaded groom:
Haft thou not kiss'd thy hand, and held my stirrop?"
In the first edition it is my ring.
This verfe is omitted in all but the first old edition, without which what follows is not fenfe. The next line alfo, Obfcure and lowly fwain ·King Henry's blood! was falfely put into the Captain's mouth.
Bare-headed plodded by my foot-cloth mule,
And thought thee happy when I shook
How often haft thou waited at my cup,
Fed from my trencher, kneel'd down at the board,
When I have feasted with Queen Margaret?
Remember it, and let it make thee creft-faln,
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 fhall it charm thy riotous tongue.
Whit. Speak Captain, shall 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-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 treafure 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 worthlefs King,
Having nor fubject, wealth, nor diadem.
By devilish policy art thou grown great,
And, like ambitious Sylla, over-gorg'd
With gobbers of thy mother's bleeding heart.
By thee Anjou and Main were fold to France;
The falle 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 Nevils all,
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