And I proclaimed 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 disguised, and why not I?

CAPTAIN

But Jove was never slain as thou shalt be.

SUFFOLK

Obscure and lousy swain, King Henry’s blood,

The honourable blood of Lancaster,

Must not be shed by such a jady groom.

Hast thou not kissed thy hand and held my stirrup?

Bare-headed plodded by my foot-cloth mute

And thought thee happy when I shook my head?

How often hast thou waited at my cup,

Fed from my trencher, kneeled down at the board

When I have feasted with Queen Margaret?

Remember it, and let it make thee crestfall’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.

WHITMORE

Speak, Captain—shall I stab the forlorn swain?

CAPTAIN

First let my words stab him as he hath me.

SUFFOLK

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

CAPTAIN

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

SUFFOLK Thou dar’st not for thy own.

CAPTAIN

Pole—

⌈SUFFOLK⌉ Pole?

CAPTAIN 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 kissed the Queen shall sweep the ground,

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 Nevilles 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-faced 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. (To Whitmore) 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.

⌈CAPTAIN⌉

But my deeds, Suffolk, soon shall stay thy rage.

SUFFOLK

I go of message from the Queen to France—

I charge thee, waft me safely cross the Channel!

CAPTAIN Walter—

WHITMORE

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

SUFFOLK

Paene 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 (to Suffolk)

My gracious lord, entreat him—speak him fair.

SUFFOLK

Suffolk’s imperial tongue is stern and rough,

Used 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 uncovered to the vulgar groom.

True nobility is exempt from fear;

More can I bear than you dare execute.

CAPTAIN

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 Besonians;

A Roman sworder and banditto slave

Murdered sweet Tully ; Brutus’ bastard hand

Stabbed Julius Caesar; savage islanders

Pompey the Great; and Suffolk dies by pirates.

Exit Whitmore with Suffolk

CAPTAIN

And as for these whose ransom we have set,

It is our pleasure one of them depart.

(To the Second Gentleman)