Spir. The duke yet lives, that Henry shall depose; But him outlive, and die a violent death.

[As the Spirit speaks, SOUTHWELL writes the

answer.

Boling. What fate awaits the duke of Suffolk?
Spir. By water shall he die, and take his end.
Boling. What shall befall the duke of Somerset ?
Spir. Let him shun castles;

Safer shall he be upon the sandy plains,

Than where castles mounted stand.

Have done, for more I hardly can endure.

Boling. Descend to darkness, and the burning lake; False fiend, avoid!

[Thunder and lightning. Spirit descends.

Enter YORK and BUCKINGHAM, hastily, with their Guards, and others.

York. Lay hands upon these traitors, and their trash. Beldame, I think we watched you at an inch.What, madam, are you there? The king and commonweal Are deeply indebted for this piece of pains;

My lord protector will, I doubt it not,

See you well guerdoned for these good deserts.

Duch. Not half so bad as thine to England's king, Injurious duke; that threat'st where is no cause. Buck. True, madam, none at all. What call you this? [Showing her the papers. Away with them; let them be clapped up close, And kept asunder.-You, madam, shall with us: Stafford, take her to thee.- [Exit Duchess, from above. We'll see your trinkets here all forth-coming;

All-Away! [Exeunt Guards, with SOUTH., BOLING., &c. York. Lord Buckingham, methinks you watched her well. A pretty plot, well chosen to build upon!

Now, pray my lord, let's see the devil's writ?

What have we here?

The duke yet lives, that Henry shall depose;
But him outlive, and die a violent death.

Why, this is just,

Aio te, acida, Romanos vincere posse.
Well, to the rest:

Tell me, what fate awaits the duke of Suffolk?

By water shall he die, and take his end.

What shall betide the duke of Somerset ?
Let him shun castles;

Safer shall he be upon the sandy plains,

[Reads.

Than where castles mounted stand.

Come, come, my lords;

These oracles are hardily attained,

And hardly understood.

The king is now in progress toward Saint Albans,
With him the husband of this lovely lady.

Thither go these news, as fast as horse can carry them;
A sorry breakfast for my lord protector.

Buck. Your grace shall give me leave, my lord of York, To be the post, in hope of his reward.

York. At your pleasure, my good lord.- Who's within there, ho!

Enter a Servant.

Invite my lords of Salisbury, and Warwick,
To sup with me to-morrow night.-Away!

[Exeunt.

ACT II.

SCENE I. Saint Albans.

Enter KING HENRY, QUEEN MARGARET, GLOSTER, Cardinal, and SUFFOLK, with Falconers hollaing.

Q. Mar. Believe me, lords, for flying at the brook, I saw not better sport for these seven years' day. Yet, by your leave, the wind was very high; And, ten to one, old Joan had not gone out.

K. Hen. But what a point, my lord, your falcon made,
And what a pitch she flew above the rest!-
To see how God in all his creatures works!
Yea, man and birds are fain of climbing high.
Suff. No marvel, an it like your majesty,
My lord protector's hawks to tower so well;
They know their master loves to be aloft,
And bears his thoughts above his falcon's pitch.
Glo. My lord, 'tis but a base, ignoble mind
That mounts no higher than a bird can soar.

Car. I thought as much; he'd be above the clouds.
Glo. Ay, my lord cardinal; how think you by that?
Were it not good, your grace could fly to heaven?
K. Hen. The treasury of everlasting joy!

Car. Thy heaven is on earth; thine eyes and thoughts Beat on a crown, the treasure of thy heart:

Pernicious protector, dangerous peer,

That smooth'st it so with king and commonweal!

Glo. What, cardinal, is your priesthood grown peremptory?

Tantæne animis cœlestibus iræ ?

Churchmen so hot? Good uncle, hide such malice;
With such holiness can you do it?

Suff. No malice, sir; no more than well becomes

So good a quarrel, and so bad a peer.

Glo. As who, my lord?

Suff.
Why, as you, my lord;
An't like your lordly lord protectorship.

Glo. Why, Suffolk, England knows thine insolence.
Q. Mar. And thy ambition, Gloster,

K. Hen.
I pr'ythee, peace,
Good queen; and whet not on these furious peers,
For blessed are the peacemakers on earth.

Car. Let me be blessed for the peace I make,
Against this proud protector, with my sword!
Glo. 'Faith, holy uncle, 'would 'twere come to that!
[Aside to the Cardinal.

Car. Marry, when thou dar'st.
Glo. Make up no factious numbers for the matter,

In thine own person answer thy abuse.

[Aside.

[Aside.

Car. Ay, where thou dar'st not peep; an if thou dar'st, This evening, on the east side of the grove. [Aside. K. Hen. How now, my lords? Car. Had not your man put up the fowl so suddenly, We had had more sport. Come with thy two-hand-sword. [Aside to GLO.

Glo. True, uncle.

Believe me, cousin Gloster,

Car. Are you advised? -the east side of the grove? Glo. Cardinal, I am with you.

K. Hen.

[Aside.

Why, how now, uncle Gloster?

Glo. Talking of hawking; nothing else, my lord.

Now, by God's mother, priest, I'll shave your crown for this,

Or all my fence shall fail.

Car. Medice teipsum;

Protector, slice to well, protect yourself.}

[Aside.

[Aside.

K. Hen. The winds grow high; so do your stomachs,

lords.

How irksome is this music to my heart!

When such strings jar, what hope of harmony?

I pray, my lords, let me compound this strife.

Enter an Inhabitant of Saint Albans, crying A Miracle!

Glo. What means this noise?

Fellow, what miracle dost thou proclaim?

Inhab. A miracle! a miracle!

Suff. Come to the king, and tell him what miracle. Inhab. Forsooth, a blind man at Saint Alban's shrine, Within this half hour, hath received his sight;

A man that ne'er saw in his life before.

K. Hen. Now, God be praised! that to believing souls Gives light in darkness, comfort in despair!

Enter the Mayor of Saint Albans, and his Brethren; and SIMPCOX, borne between two Persons in a chair; his Wife, and a great Multitude, following.

Car. Here come the townsmen on procession, To present your highness with the man.

K. Hen. Great is his comfort in this earthly vale, Although by his sight his sin be multiplied.

Glo. Stand by, my masters; bring him near the king; His highness' pleasure is to talk with him.

K. Hen. Good fellow, tell us here the circumstance,
That we for thee may glorify the Lord.

What, hast thou been long blind, and now restored?
Simp. Born blind, an't please your grace.

Wife. Ay, indeed, was he.

Suff. What woman is this?

Wife. His wife, an't like your worship.

Glo. Hadst thou been his mother, thou couldst have better told.

K. Hen. Where wert thou born?

Simp. At Berwick in the north, an't like your grace. K. Hen. Poor soul! God's goodness hath been great to thee.

Let never day nor night unhallowed pass,

But still remember what the Lord hath done.

Q. Mar. Tell me, good fellow, cam'st thou here by chance,

Or of devotion, to this holy shrine?

Simp. God knows, of pure devotion; being called
A hundred times, and oftener, in my sleep

By good saint Alban; who said,-Simpcox, come;
Come, offer at my shrine, and I will help thee.

Wife. Most true, forsooth; and many time and oft
Myself have heard a voice to call him so.

Simp. O, born so, master.
Glo.

What, and wouldst climb a tree? Simp. But that in all my life, when I was a youth. Wife. Too true; and bought his climbing very dear. Glo. 'Mass, thou lov'dst plums well, that wouldst ven

ture so.

Simp. Alas, good master, my wife desired some damsons, And made me climb, with danger of my life.

Glo. A subtle knave! but yet it shall not serve.— Let me see thine eyes.-Wink now;-now open them. In my opinion, yet thou see'st not well.

Simp. Yes, master, clear as day; I thank God and saint

Alban.

Glo. Say'st thou me so? What color is this cloak of? Simp. Red, master; red as blood.

Glo. Why, that's well said. What color is my gown
Simp. Black, forsooth; coal-black, as jet.

of?

K. Hen. Why, then, thou know'st what color jet is of? Suff. And yet, I think, jet did he never see.

Glo. But cloaks, and gowns, before this day, a many. Wife. Never, before this day, in all his life.

Glo. Tell me, sirrah, what's my name?

Simp. Alas, master, I know not.

Glo. What's his name?

Simp. I know not.

Glo. Nor his?

Simp. No, indeed, master.

Glo. What's thine own name?

Simp. Saunder Simpcox, an if it please you, master.
Glo. Then, Saunder, sit thou there, the lyingest knave
In Christendom. If thou hadst been born blind,
Thou mightst as well have known our names, as thus
To name the several colors we do wear.

Sight may distinguish of colors; but suddenly
To nominate them all, 's impossible.-

My lords, Saint Alban here hath done a miracle;
And would ye not think that cunning to be great,
That could restore this cripple to his legs again?
Simp. O, master, that you could!