The Complete Works of William Shakespeare by William Shakespeare (moboreader .TXT) 📕

SUFFOLK. I go.

QUEEN. And take my heart with thee. [She kisses him]

SUFFOLK. A jewel, lock’d into the woefull’st cask That ever did contain a thing of worth.

Even as a splitted bark, so sunder we: This way fall I to death.

QUEEN. This way for me. Exeunt severally

SCENE III.

London. CARDINAL BEAUFORT’S bedchamber

Enter the KING, SALISBURY, and WARWICK, to the CARDINAL in bed KING HENRY. How fares my lord? Speak, Beaufort, to thy sovereign.

CARDINAL. If thou be’st Death I’ll give thee England’s treasure, Enough to purchase such another island, So thou wilt let me live and feel no pain.

KING HENRY. Ah, what a sign it is of evil life Where death’s approach is seen so terrible!

WARWICK. Beaufort, it is thy sovereign speaks to thee.

CARDINAL. Bring me unto my trial when you will.

Died he not in his bed? Where should he die?

Can I make men live, whe’er they will or no?

O, 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 HENRY. 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!

WARWICK. See how the pangs of death do make him grin SALISBURY. Disturb him not, let him pass peaceably.

KING HENRY. Peace to his soul, if God’s good pleasure be!

Lord Card’nal, 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!

WARWICK. So bad a death argues a monstrous life.

KING HENRY. Forbear to judge, for we are sinners all.

Close up his eyes, and draw the curtain close; And let us all to meditation. Exeunt

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ACT IV. SCENE I.

The coast of Kent

Alarum. Fight at sea. Ordnance goes off. Enter a LIEUTENANT, a SHIPMASTER and his MATE, and WALTER WHITMORE, with sailors; SUFFOLK and other GENTLEMEN, as prisoners LIEUTENANT. 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 discoloured 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 GENTLEMAN. What is my ransom, master, let me know?

MASTER. A thousand crowns, or else lay down your head.

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

LIEUTENANT. What, think you much to pay two thousand crowns, And bear the name and port of gentlemen?

Cut both the villains’ throats-for die you shall; The lives of those which we have lost in fight Be counterpois’d with such a petty sum!

FIRST GENTLEMAN. I’ll give it, sir: and therefore spare my life.

SECOND GENTLEMAN. And so will I, and write home for it straight.

WHITMORE. I lost mine eye in laying the prize aboard, [To SUFFOLK] And therefore, to revenge it, shalt thou die; And so should these, if I might have my will.

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

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

WHITMORE. And so am I: my name is Walter Whitmore.

How now! Why start’st thou? What, doth death affright?

SUFFOLK. Thy name affrights me, in whose sound is death.

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 Gualtier, being rightly sounded.

WHITMORE. Gualtier or Walter, which it is I care not: Never yet did base dishonour blur our name But with our sword we wip’d away the blot; Therefore, when merchant-like I sell revenge, Broke be my sword, my arms torn and defac’d, And I proclaim’d a coward through the world.

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

WHITMORE. The Duke of Suffolk muffled up in rags?

SUFFOLK. Ay, but these rags are no part of the Duke: Jove sometime went disguis’d, and why not I?

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

SUFFOLK. Obscure and lowly swain, King Henry’s blood, The honourable blood of Lancaster,

Must not be shed by such a jaded groom.

Hast thou not kiss’d thy hand and held my stirrup, Bareheaded 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, kneel’d down at the board, When I have feasted with Queen Margaret?

Remember it, and let it make thee crestfall’n, Ay, and allay thus 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.

WHITMORE. Speak, Captain, shall I stab the forlorn swain?

LIEUTENANT. First let my words stab him, as he hath me.

SUFFOLK. Base slave, thy words are blunt, and so art thou.

LIEUTENANT. Convey him hence, and on our longboat’s side Strike off his head.

SUFFOLK. Thou dar’st not, for thy own.

LIEUTENANT. Poole!

SUFFOLK. Poole?

LIEUTENANT. 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.

Thy lips, that kiss’d the Queen, shall sweep the ground; And thou that smil’dst 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, overgorg’d 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, surpris’d 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 By shameful murder of a guiltless king And lofty proud encroaching tyranny-Burns with revenging fire, whose hopeful colours Advance our half-fac’d sun, striving to shine, 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.

SUFFOLK. O that I were a god, to shoot forth thunder Upon these paltry, servile, abject drudges!

Small things make base men proud: this villain here, Being captain of a pinnace, threatens more Than Bargulus, the strong Illyrian pirate.

Drones suck not eagles’ blood but rob beehives.

It is impossible that I should die

By such a lowly vassal as thyself.

Thy words move rage and not remorse in me.

I go of message from the Queen to France: I charge thee waft me safely cross the Channel.

LIEUTENANT. Walter—

WHITMORE. Come, Suffolk, I must waft thee to thy death.

SUFFOLK. Gelidus timor occupat artus: it is thee I fear.

WHITMORE. Thou shalt have cause to fear before I leave thee.

What, are ye daunted now? Now will ye stoop?

FIRST GENTLEMAN. My gracious lord, entreat him, speak him fair.

SUFFOLK. Suffolk’s imperial tongue is stem and rough, Us’d to command, untaught to plead for favour.

Far be it we should honour such as these With humble suit: no, rather let my head Stoop to the block than these knees bow to any Save to the God of heaven and to my king; And sooner dance upon a bloody pole

Than stand uncover’d to the vulgar groom.

True nobility is exempt from fear:

More can I bear than you dare execute.

LIEUTENANT. Hale him away, and let him talk no more.

SUFFOLK. Come, soldiers, show what cruelty ye can, That this my death may never be forgot-Great men oft die by vile bezonians:

A Roman sworder and banditto slave

Murder’d sweet Tully; Brutus’ bastard hand Stabb’d Julius Caesar; savage islanders Pompey the Great; and Suffolk dies by pirates.

Exit WALTER with SUFFOLK

LIEUTENANT. And as for these, whose ransom we have set, It is our pleasure one of them depart; Therefore come you with us, and let him go.

Exeunt all but the FIRST GENTLEMAN

Re-enter WHITMORE with SUFFOLK’S body WHITMORE. There let his head and lifeless body lie, Until the Queen his mistress bury it. Exit FIRST GENTLEMAN. O barbarous and bloody spectacle!

His body will I bear unto the King.

If he revenge it not, yet will his friends; So will the Queen, that living held him dear.

Exit with the body

SCENE II.

Blackheath

Enter GEORGE BEVIS and JOHN HOLLAND

GEORGE. Come and get thee a sword, though made of a lath; they have been up these two days.

JOHN. They have the more need to sleep now, then.

GEORGE. I tell thee Jack Cade the clothier means to dress the commonwealth, and turn it, and set a new nap upon it.

JOHN. So he had need, for ‘tis threadbare. Well, I say it was never merry world in England since gentlemen came up.

GEORGE. O miserable age! Virtue is not regarded in handicraftsmen.

JOHN. The nobility think scorn to go in leather aprons.

GEORGE. Nay, more, the King’s Council are no good workmen.

JOHN. True; and yet it is said ‘Labour in thy vocation’; which is as much to say as ‘Let the magistrates be labouring men’; and therefore should we be magistrates.

GEORGE. Thou hast hit it; for there’s no better sign of a brave mind than a hard hand.

JOHN. I see them! I see them! There’s Best’s son, the tanner of Wingham-GEORGE. He shall have the skins of our enemies to make dog’s leather of.

JOHN. And Dick the butcher—

GEORGE. Then is sin struck down, like an ox, and iniquity’s throat cut like a calf.

JOHN. And Smith the weaver—

GEORGE. Argo, their thread of life is spun.

JOHN. Come, come, let’s fall in with them.

Drum. Enter CADE, DICK THE BUTCHER, SMITH

THE WEAVER, and a SAWYER, with infinite numbers CADE. We John Cade, so term’d of our supposed father-DICK. [Aside] Or rather, of stealing a cade of herrings.

CADE. For our enemies shall fall before us, inspired with