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ACTIV.

SCENE, the Coast of Kent.

Alarm. Fight at Sea. Ordnance goes off. Enter Captain, Whitmore, and other Pirates, with Suffolk and other Prisoners.

T

CAPTAΙΝ.

HE gaudy, blabbing, and remorseful day
Is crept into the bosom of the fea:
And now loud howling wolves arouse the jades,
That drag the tragick melancholy night;
Who with their drowsy, flow, and flagging wings
Clip dead men's graves; and from their misty jaws
Breathe foul contagious darkness in the air.
Therefore bring forth the foldiers of our prize :
For whilft 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.

1 Gent. What is my ransom, master, let me know.
Maft. A thousand crowns, or else lay down your heada
Mate. And so 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 shall :
Nor can those lives, which we have lost in fight,
Be counter-pois'd with fuch a petty sum.

1 Gent. I'll give it, Sir, and therefore spare my life, 2 Gent. And fo 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 Suffolk. And fo should these, if I might have my will.

Capt. Cap. Be not so rash, take ransom, let him live. Suf. Look on my George, I am a gentleman ; Rate me at what thou wilt, thou shalt be paid.Whit. And fo am I; my name is Walter Whitmore. How now? why start'st thou? what, doth death affrigh Suf. Thy name affrights me, in whose sound is deat 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 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 sword, my arms torn and defac'd, And I proclaim'd a coward through the world!

Suf. 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? Suf. Ay, but these rags are no part of the Duke. Jove fometimes went disguis'd, and why not I? Cap. But Jove was never flain, as thou shalt be. Suf. Obscure and lowly swain, 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 stirrop? Bare-headed, plodded by my foot-cloth mule, And thought thee happy when I shook my head? How often haft 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 crest-fall'n; Ay, and allay this thy abortive pride. How in our voiding lobby haft 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. Suf. Base slave, thy words are blunt; and so art thou. Cap.

i

Cap. Convey him hence, and on our long-boat's fide, Strike off his head.

Suf. Thou dar'ist not for thy own.

Cap. Poole, Sir Poole? Lord?

Ay, kennel-puddle-fink, whose filth and dirt
Troubles the filver spring where England drinks:
Now will I dam up this thy yawning mouth,
For swallowing up the treasure of the realm;
Thy lips, that kiss'd the Queen, shall fweep the ground;
And thou, that smil'dst at good Duke Humphry'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 affie a mighty Lord
Unto the daughter of a worthless King,
Having nor fubject, 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 false revolting Normans, thorough thee,
Disdain to call us Lord; and Picardie
Hath flain their governors, surpriz'd our Forts,
And sent the ragged soldiers wounded home.
The princely Warwick, and the Nevills all,
(Whose dreadful swords were never drawn in vain)
As hating thee, are rifing up in arms.
And now the house of York (thrust from the crown
By shameful murder of a guiltless King,
And lofty proud incroaching tyranny,)
Burns with revenging fire; whose hopeful colours
Advance a 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.
Suf. O, that I were a God, to shoot forth thunder
Upon these paltry, fervile, 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 fuck not eagles' blood, but rob bee-hives.
It is impoffible that I should die

By fuch a lowly vassal as thyself.

Thy words move rage, and not remorse, in me:
I go of meffage from the Queen to France;
I charge thee waft me safely cross the channel.
Cap. Walter

Whit. Come, Suffolk, I must waft thee to thy death.
Suf. Pœnæ gelidus timor occupat artus: it's thee I fear. (10)
Whit. Thou shalt have cause to fear, before I leave thee.

What, are ye daunted now? now will ye stoop?
I Gent. My gracious Lord, intreat him; speak him fair.
Suf. Suffolk's imperial tongue is stern 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 heav'n, and to my King;
And fooner 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.

Cap. Hale him away, and let him talk no more; Come, foldiers, shew what cruelty ye can.

Suf. That this my death may never be forgot,.
Great men oft die by vile Bezonians.
A Roman sworder and Banditto flave
Murder'd fweet Tully; Brutus' bastard hand
Stabb'd Julius Cæfar; savage Islanders
Pompey the Great: And Suffolk dies by Pirates.

[Exit Walter Whitmore, with Suffolk.

Cap. And as for these, whose ransom we have fet,

(10) Pine gelidus timor occupar artus.] Thus the Ist Folio Impref Gon. Whence the Poet gleaned this Hemiftich, I do not know. 'Tis certain, the first Word is corrupted. I believe, I have restored it, as it ought to be. Suffolk would say, the Fear of that Punishment, that Revenge, they were about to take upon him, put his Limbs into a cold trembling.

It

1

It is our pleafure 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 mistress bury it.

[Exit Whit.

I 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.

Bevis.

SCENE changes to Southwark.

C

Enter Bevis and John Holland.

a

fword though made of

Ome, and get thee a lath; they have been up these two days. Hol. They have the more need to fleep now then. Bevis. I tell thee, Jack Cade the clothier means to dress the commonwealth, and turn it, and fet a new nap upon it.

Hol. So he had need, for 'tis thread-bare. Well, I say, it was never merry world in England since gentlemen came up.

Bevis. O miferable age! virtue is not regarded in
handy-crafts-men.
Hol. The Nobility think scorn to go in leather aprons.
Bevis. Nay more, the King's council are no good

workmen.

Hol. True, and yet it is faid, Labour in thy vocation; which is as much as to say, let the magistrates be.labouring men; and therefore should we be magiftrates.

Bevis. Thou hast hit it; for there's no better fign of a brave mind than a hard hand.

Hol. I fee them, I see them; there's Best's son, the Tanner of Wingham.

Bevis. He shall have the skins of our enemies to make dog's leather of.

Hel. And Dick the butcher:

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