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Died he not in his bed? where should he die?
Can I make men live, whether they will or no ?
0, torture me no more! I will confess.
Alive again? then show me where he is :
I'll give a thousand pound to look upon him.
He hath no eyes, the dust hath blinded them.
Comb down his hair; look, look! it stands upright,
Like lime-twigs set to catch my winged soul.
Give me some drink; and bid the apothecary
Bring the strong poison that I bought of him.

King. O thou eternal Mover of the heavens,
Look with a gentle eye upon this wretch !
O, beat away the busy meddling fiend
That lays strong siege unto this wretch's soul
And from his bosom purge this black despair!
WAR. See, how the pangs of death do make

him grin! SAL. Disturb him not; let him pass peaceably. King. Peace to his soul, if God's good pleasure

be ! Lord cardinal, if thou think'st on heaven's bliss, Hold up thy hand, make signal of thy hope. He dies, and makes no sign. O God, forgive him !

War. So bad a death argues a monstrous life.

King. Forbear to judge, for we are sinners all. Close


and draw the curtain close ; And let us all to meditation.





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The coast of Kent.
Alarum. Fight at sea. Ordnance goes off. Enter

a Captain, a Master, a Master's-Mate, WALTER
WHITMORE, and others; with them SUFFOLK, and
others, prisoners.

Cap. The gaudy, blabbing and remorseful day
Is crept into the bosom of the sea;
And now loud-howling wolves arouse the jades
That drag the tragic melancholy night;
Who, with their drowsy, slow and flagging wings,
Clip dead men's graves and from their misty jaws
Breathe foul contagious darkness in the air.
Therefore bring forth the soldiers of our prize ;
For, whilst our pinnace anchors in the Downs,
Here shall they make their ransom on the sand,
Or with their blood stain this discolour'd shore.
Master, this prisoner freely give I thee;
And thou that art his mate, make boot of this ;
The other, Walter Whitmore, is thy share.
FIRST GENT. What is my ransom, master ? let

me know.
Mast. A thousand crowns, or else lay down your

head. MATE. And so much shall you give, or off goes


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Cap. What, think you much to pay two thousand

crowns, And bear the name and port of gentlemen ? Cut both the villains' throats; for die

shall : The lives of those which we have lost in fight Be counterpoised with such a petty sum !

FIRST Gent. I'll give it, sir; and therefore spare


my life.

Sec. GENT. And so will I and write home for it

straight. Whit. I lost mine eye in laying the prize aboard, And therefore to revenge it, shalt thou die ;

[To Sur. And so should these, if I might have my

will. Cap. Be not so rash; take ransom, let him live.

Sur. Look on my George; I am a gentleman: Rate me at what thou wilt, thou shalt be paid.

Whit. And so am I;my name is Walter Whitmore. How now! why start'st thou ? what, doth death

affright? Sur. Thy name affrights me, in whose sound is

A cunning man did calculate my birth
And told me that by water I should die:
Yet let not this make thee be bloody-minded ;
Thy name is Gaultier, being rightly sounded.

Whit. Gaultier or Walter, which it is, I care not:
Never yet did base dishonour blur our name,
But with our sword we wiped away the blot;
Therefore, when merchant-like I sell revenge,

Broke be my sword, my arms torn and defaced,
And I proclaim'd a coward through the world!

Sur. Stay, Whitmore; for thy prisoner is a prince, The Duke of Suffolk, William de la Pole.

Whit. The Duke of Suffolk muffled up in rags !

Sur. Ay, but these rags are no part of the duke: Jove sometime went disguised, and why not I?

Cap. But Jove was never slain, as thou shalt be.

Sur. Obscure and lowly swain, King Henry's The honourable blood of Lancaster, [blood, Must not be shed by such a jaded groom. Hast thou not kiss'd thy hand and held my stirrup? Bare-headed plodded by my foot-cloth mule And thought thee happy when I shook my

head ? How often hast thou waited at my cup, Fed from my trencher, kneeld down at the board, When I have feasted with Queen Margaret ? Remember it and let it make thee crest-fall’n, Ay, and allay this thy abortive pride; How in our voiding lobby hast thou stood And duly waited for my coming forth ? This hand of mine hath writ in thy behalf And therefore shall it charm thy riotous tongue. Whit. Speak, captain, shall I stab the forlorn

swain ? CAP. First let my words stab him, as he hath me. Sur. Base slave, thy words are blunt and so art

thou. CAP. Convey him hence and on our long-boat's


Strike off his head.

Thou darest not, for thy own.
CAP. Yes, Pole.

Pole! CAP.

Pool! Sir Pool! lord ! Ay, kennel, puddle, sink; whose filth and dirt Troubles the silver spring where England drinks. Now will I dam up this thy yawning mouth For swallowing the treasure of the realm : Thylipsthatkiss'd the queen shall sweeptheground; And thou that smiledst at good Duke Humphrey's

death Against the senseless winds shalt grin in vain, Who in contempt shall hiss at thee again: And wedded be thou to the hags of hell, For daring to affy a mighty lord Unto the daughter of a worthless king, Having neither subject, wealth, nor diadem. By devilish policy art thou grown great And, like ambitious Sylla, overgorged With gobbets of thy mother's bleeding heart. By thee Anjou and Maine were sold to France, The false revolting Normans thorough thee Disdain to call us lord, and Picardy Hath slain their governors, surprised our forts And sent the ragged soldiers wounded home. The princely Warwick, and the Nevils all, Whose dreadful swords were never drawn in vain, As hating thee, are rising up in arms: And now the house of York, thrust from the crown

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