And can do naught but wail her darling’s loss;

Even so myself bewails good Gloucester’s case

With sad unhelpful tears, and with dimmed eyes

Look after him, and cannot do him good,

So mighty are his vowèd enemies.

His fortunes I will weep, and ’twixt each groan,

Say ‘Who’s a traitor? Gloucester, he is none’.

Exit ⌈with Salisbury and Warwick⌉

QUEEN MARGARET

Free lords, cold snow melts with the sun’s hot beams.

Henry my lord is cold in great affairs,

Too full of foolish pity; and Gloucester’s show

Beguiles him as the mournful crocodile

With sorrow snares relenting passengers,

Or as the snake rolled in a flow’ring bank

With shining chequered slough doth sting a child

That for the beauty thinks it excellent.

Believe me, lords, were none more wise than I—

And yet herein I judge mine own wit good—

This Gloucester should be quickly rid the world

To rid us from the fear we have of him.

CARDINAL BEAUFORT

That he should die is worthy policy;

But yet we want a colour for his death.

’Tis meet he be condemned by course of law.

SUFFOLK

But, in my mind, that were no policy.

The King will labour still to save his life,

The commons haply rise to save his life;

And yet we have but trivial argument

More than mistrust that shows him worthy death.

YORK

So that, by this, you would not have him die?

SUFFOLK

Ah, York, no man alive so fain as I.

YORK (aside)

’Tis York that hath more reason for his death.

(Aloud) But my lord Cardinal, and you my lord of

Suffolk,

Say as you think, and speak it from your souls.

Were’t not all one an empty eagle were set

To guard the chicken from a hungry kite,

As place Duke Humphrey for the King’s Protector?

QUEEN MARGARET

So the poor chicken should be sure of death.

SUFFOLK

Madam, ‘tis true; and were’t not madness then

To make the fox surveyor of the fold,

Who being accused a crafty murderer,

His guilt should be but idly posted over

Because his purpose is not executed?

No—let him die in that he is a fox,

By nature proved an enemy to the flock,

Before his chaps be stained with crimson blood,

As Humphrey, proved by reasons, to my liege.

And do not stand on quillets how to slay him;

Be it by gins, by snares, by subtlety,

Sleeping or waking, ‘tis no matter how,

So he be dead; for that is good conceit

Which mates him first that first intends deceit.

QUEEN MARGARET

Thrice-noble Suffolk, ’tis resolutely spoke.

SUFFOLK

Not resolute, except so much were done;

For things are often spoke and seldom meant;

But that my heart accordeth with my tongue,

Seeing the deed is meritorious,

And to preserve my sovereign from his foe,

Say but the word and I will be his priest.

CARDINAL BEAUFORT

But I would have him dead, my lord of Suffolk,

Ere you can take due orders for a priest.

Say you consent and censure well the deed,

And I’ll provide his executioner;

I tender so the safety of my liege.

SUFFOLK

Here is my hand; the deed is worthy doing.

QUEEN MARGARET And SO say I.

YORK

And I. And now we three have spoke it,

It skills not greatly who impugns our doom.

Enter a Post

POST

Great lord, from Ireland am I come amain

To signify that rebels there are up

And put the Englishmen unto the sword.

Send succours, lords, and stop the rage betime,

Before the wound do grow uncurable;

For, being green, there is great hope of help.

⌈Exit⌉

CARDINAL BEAUFORT

A breach that craves a quick expedient stop!

What counsel give you in this weighty cause?

YORK

That Somerset be sent as regent thither.

’Tis meet that lucky ruler be employed—

Witness the fortune he hath had in France.

SOMERSET

If York, with all his far-fet policy,

Had been the regent there instead of me,

He never would have stayed in France so long.

YORK

No, not to lose it all as thou hast done.

I rather would have lost my life betimes

Than bring a burden of dishonour home

By staying there so long till all were lost.

Show me one scar charactered on thy skin.

Men’s flesh preserved so whole do seldom win.

QUEEN MARGARET

Nay, then, this spark will prove a raging fire

If wind and fuel be brought to feed it with.

No more, good York; sweet Somerset, be still.

Thy fortune, York, hadst thou been regent there,

Might happily have proved far worse than his.

YORK

What, worse than naught? Nay, then a shame take all!

SOMERSET

And, in the number, thee that wishest shame.

CARDINAL BEAUFORT

My lord of York, try what your fortune is.

Th’uncivil kerns of Ireland are in arms

And temper clay with blood of Englishmen.

To Ireland will you lead a band of men

Collected choicely, from each county some,

And try your hap against the Irishmen?

YORK

I will, my lord, so please his majesty.