Shakespeare's First Folio Part 375

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 n.o.ble 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. G.o.d forbid any Malice should preuayle, That faultlesse may condemne a n.o.ble man: Pray G.o.d 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 G.o.d forfend

Card. G.o.ds 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 G.o.d

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-b.a.l.l.s, 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 n.o.ble 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 Sh.o.r.e.

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 sh.o.r.e, 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 sh.o.r.e 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 Sh.o.r.e, 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, G.o.d knowes, not Henry: Enter his Chamber, view his breathlesse Corpes, And comment then vpon his sodaine death