"COMB DOWN HIS HAIR; LOOK! LOOK! IT STANDS UPRIGHT.. LIKE LIME-TWIGS SET TO CATCH MY WINGED SOUL! Act 3. Scene 3. London, Published by Thomas Tegg, NIII Cheapside March 11814. Printed by Diron ACT IV. SCENE I.-Kent. The sea-shore near Dover. Firing heard at sea. Then enter from a boat, a Captain, a Master, a Master's-Mate, WALTER WHITMORE, and others; with them SUFFOLK, and other gentlemen, pri soners. * Cap. 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 tragick 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 ransome 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, [Pointing to SUFFOLK,] Walter Whitmore, is thy share. 1 Gent. What is my ransome, master? let me know · Mast. A thousand crowns, or else lay down your head. Mate. And so much shall you give, or off goes yours. * Cap. What, think you much to pay two thousand crowns, * And bear the name and port of gentlemen?- *The lives of those which we have lost in fight, * Cannot be counterpois'd with such a petty sum. * 1 Gent. I'll give it, sir; and therefore spare my life. * 2 Gent. And so 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 SUF. And so should these, if I might have my will. * Cap. Be not so rash; take ransome, let him live. Suf. Look on my George, I am a gentleman; 'Rate me at what thou wilt, thou shalt be paid. 'Whit. And so am I; my name is-Walter Whitmore. 'How now? why start'st thou? what, doth death affright? Suf. 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; Whit. Gualtier, or Walter, which it is, I care not; Ne'er 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! [Lays hold on SUFFOLK. 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 sometime went disguis'd, And why not I? Cap. But Jove was never slain, as thou shalt be. Suf. 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? Bare-headed 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, * Remember it, and let it make thee crest-fall'n; 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. Convey him hence, and on our long-boat's side S Strike off his head. Cap. Thou dar'st not for thy own. Poole? Poole? Sir Poole? lord? 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 |