That lays ftrong fiege unto this wretch's foul,
And from his bofom purge this black despair.
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 plea-
fure be!

Lord Cardinal, if thou think'ft on heaven's blifs,
Hold up thy hand, make fignal of thy hope.
He dies, and makes no fign! O God, forgive him.
War. So bad a death argues a monftrous life.
K. Henry. Forbear to judge, for we are finners all.
Clofe up his eyes,
and draw the curtain close,
And let us all to meditation.

[Exeunt.

A C T IV.

SCENE I.

The Coaf of Kent.

.f

Alarum. Fight at fea. Ordnance goes off. Enter Captain, Whitmore, and other Pirates, with Suffolk and other Prifoners.

i

HE gaudy, blabbing, and remorseful day
Is crept into the bofom of the sea:

And now loud howling wolves aroufe the jades,
That drag the tragic melancholy night.;

Who with their drowfy, flow, and flagging wings
Clip dead men's graves; and from their mifty jaws
Breathe foul contagious darknefs in the air.
Therefore bring forth the foldiers of our prize:
For whilft our Pinnace lanchors 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

And thou, that art his mate, make boot of this:
The other, Walter Whitmore, is thy fhare.

1 Gent. What is my ransom, mafter, let me know. Maft. A thousand crowns, or else lay down your head.

Mate. And fo much shall you give, or off

goes

yours. Whit. 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 fhall:
Nor can thofe lives, which we have loft in fight,
Be counter-pois'd with fuch a petty sum.

1.Gent. I'll give it, Sir, and therefore fpare my

life.

2 Gent. And fo will I, and write home for it ftraight. Whit. I loft mine eye in laying the prize aboard, And therefore, to revenge it, fhalt thou die;

[To Suffolk. And fo fhould thefe, if I might have my will. Cap. Be not fo rafh, take ranfom, let him live. { Suf. Look on my George, I am a gentleman; Rate me at what thou wilt, thou fhalt be paid. Whit. And so am I; my name is Walter Whitmore. How now? why start'st thou?' what, doth death afv fright ?: [death Suf. Thy name affrights me, in whofe found is A cunning man did calculate my birth,

And told me, that by Walter 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 fword 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.

Suf. Stay, Whitmore; for thy prifoner is a Prince; The Duke of Suffolk, William de la Pole.

Whit. The Duke of Suffolk muffled up in rags? Suf. Ay, but these rags are no part of the Duke. Jove fometimes went difguis'd, and why not I? Cap. But Jove was never flain, as thou fhalt be. Suf. Obfcure and lowly fwain, King Henry's blood, The honourable blood of Lancaster,

Muft not be shed by such a jaded groom:

Haft thou not kiss'd thy hand, and held my ftirrop?
Bare-headed, plodded by my foot-cloth mule,
And thought thee happy when I fhook my head?
How often haft thou waited at my cup,

Fed from my trencher, kneel'd down at the board,
When I have feafted with Queen Margaret?
Remember it, and let it make thee creft-fall'n;
Ay, and allay this thy abortive pride.
How in our voiding lobby halt thou flood,
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, fhall I flab the forlorn fwain?
Cap. First let my words ftab him, as he hath me.
Suf. Bafe llave. 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, kennel-puddle-fink, whofe filth and dirt
Troubles the filver Spring where England drinks:
Now will I dam up this thy yawning mouth,
For fwallowing up the treasure of the Realm;
Thy lips, that kifs'd the Queen, fhall sweep 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

And wedded be thou to the hags of hell,
For daring to affie a mighty lord

Unto the daughter of a worthless King,
Having nor Subject, Wealth, nor Diadem!
By devilish policy art thou grown great,
And, like ambitious Sylla, over-gorg'd
With gobbets of thy mother's bleeding heart.
By thee Anjou and Maine were fold to France;
The falfe 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 Nevills all,
(Whofe dreadful fwords were never drawn in vain)
As hating thee, are rifing up in arms.

And now the Houfe of York (thrust from the Crown
By fhameful murder of a guiltlefs King,
And lofty proud incroaching tyranny,)

Burns with revenging fire; whofe hopeful Colours
Advance a half fac'd Sun ftriving to fhine;
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.
Suf. O, that I were a God, to fhoot forth thunder
Upon thefe paultry, fervile, abject drudges!
Small things make base men proud. This villain here,
Being captain of a pinnace, threatens more
Than Bargulus the ftrong Illyrian Pirate.

Drones fuck not eagles' blood, but rob bee-hives.
It is impoffible that I fhould die

By fuch a lowly vaffal as thyfelf.

Thy words move rage, and not remorfe, in me: go of meffage from the Queen to France;

I

I charge thee waft me fafely crofs the channel.

Cap. Walter

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

Suf.

Suf. Pana gelidus timor occupat artus: it's thee I fear. Whit. Thou shalt have caufe to fear, before I leave

thee.

What, are ye daunted now? now will

ye ftoop? 1 Gent. My gracious lord, intreat him; fpeak him

fair.

Suf. Suffolk's imperial tongue is ftern and rough, Us'd to command, untaught to plead for-favour. Far be it, we should honour fuch as thefe

With humble fuit; no; rather let my head
Stoop to the block, than these knees bow to any,
Save to the God of heav'n, and to my King;
And fooner dance upon a bloody pole,
Than ftand uncover'd to the vulgar groom.
True Nobility is exempt from fear:

More can I bear, than you dare execute.

Cap. Hale him away, and let him talk no more.
Suf. Come, foldiers, fhew what cruelty ye can,
That this my death may never be forgot.
Great men oft die by vile Bezonians.

A Roman fworder and Banditto flave
Murder'd sweet Tully; Brutus' ballard hand
Stabb'd Julius Cæfar; favage Iflanders

Pompey the Great: And Suffolk dies by Pirates.

[Exit Walter Whitmore with Suffolk. Cap. And as for thefe, whofe ranfom we have fet, It is our pleasure one of them depart;

Therefore come you with us, and let him go.

[Exit Captain and the rest.

Manet the first Gent. Enter Whitmore, with the body. Whit. There let his head and liveless body lie,

Until the Queen his miftrefs bury it.

[Exit Whit. 1 Gent. 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.

SCENE