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My lord Protector will, I doubt it not,

See you well guerdon'd for thefe good deferts.
Elean. Not half fo bad as thine to England's King,
Injurious Duke, that threat'ft where is no caufe.
Buck. True, Madam, none at all: What call you
this?

Away with them, let them be clap'd up close,
And kept apart. You, Madam, fhall with us.
Stafford, take her to thee.

We'll fee your Trinkets here forth-coming all.
[Exeunt Guards with Jordan, Southwel, &c.
York. Lord Buckingham, methinks, you watch'd
her well;

A pretty Plot, well chofe to build upon.

Now, pray my lord, let's fee the devil's Writ.
What have we here?

The Duke yet lives, that Henry fall depofe;

But him out-live, and die a violent death.

[Reads.

Why, this is juft, Aio te, Eacida, Romanos vincere posse.

Well, to the rest:

Tell me, what fate awaits the Duke of Suffolk?

By water fhall be die, and take his end.

What fhall betide the Duke of Somerfet?

Let him foun Castles,

Safer fhall be be on the fandy plains,

Than where caftles mounted ftand.

Come, come, my lords,

Thefe Oracles are (a) hardily attain'd,

And hardly understood.

The King is now in progress tow'rds St. Albans ;
With him, the husband of this lovely lady:

Thither go thefe news, as faft as horfe can carry them;

6 Lord Buckingham, methinks, &c.] This repetition of the prophefies, which is altogether unnecefiary, after what the fpectators had heard in the Scene immediately preceeding, is not to be found in the first edition of this Play. Mr. Pope.

[(a) hardily. Ms. Theobald.--Vulg. hardly,

A

A forry breakfast for my lord Protector.

Buck. Your Grace fhall give me leave, my lord of York,

To be the Poft, in hope of his reward.

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

Enter a Serving-man.

Invite my lords of Salisbury and Warwick,
To fup with me to morrow night. Away! [Exeunt.

ACT II.

SCENE I.

At St. ALBANS.

Enter King Henry, Queen, Protector, Cardinal, and Suffolk, with Faulkners ballooing.

2. MARGARET.

BELIEVE me, lords, for flying at the brook,

I faw not better fport these seven years' day; Yet, by your leave, the wind was very high, And, ten to one, old Joan had not gone out. K. Henry. But what a point, my lord, your Faulcon made,

And what a pitch fhe flew above the rest:

To fee how God in all his creatures works!
Yea, man and birds are fain of climbing high.
Suf. No marvel, an it like your Majefty,
My lord Protector's Hawks do towre so well;
They know, their Mafter loves to be aloft,
And bears his thoughts above his Faulcon's pitch.
Glo. My lord, 'tis but a base ignoble mind,
That mounts no higher than a bird can foar.
Car. I thought as much, he'd be above the clouds.

Glo.

Glo. Ay, my lord Card❜nal, how think you by that? Were it not good, your Grace could fly to heav'n? K. Henry. The treasury of everlasting joy!

Car. Thy heaven is on earth, thine eyes and thoughts Bent on a Crown, the treasure of thy heart: Pernicious Protector, dangerous Peer,

That smooth'ft it fo with King and Common-weal! Glo. What, Card'nal! Is your priesthood grown fo peremptory? Tantane animis Cæleftibus iræ? Churchmen fo hot? good uncle, hide fuch malice. 7 With fuch Holiness can you do it?

Suf. No malice, Sir, no more than well becomes So good a quarrel, and fo bad a Peer.

Glo. As who, my lord?

Suf. Why, as yourself, my lord;
An't like your lordly, lord Protectorship.

Glo. Why, Suffolk, England knows thine infolence.
Q. Mar. And thy ambition, Glofter.

K. Henry. I pr'ythee, peace, good Queen;
And whet not on thefe too too furious Peers,
For bleffed are the peace-makers on earth.

Car. Let me be bleffed for the peace I make, Against this proud Protector, with my fword! Glo. Faith, holy uncle, 'would 'twere come? to that.

Car. Marry, when thou dar'st.

Glo. Make up no factious numbers for the

matter,

In thine own person answer thy abuse.
Car. Ay, where thou dar'ft not peep: and,
if thou dar'ft,

This Ev'ning on the eaft fide of the grove,

[Afide.

7 With fuch Holiness can you do it?] Do what? The verse wants a foot, we should read,

With fuch Holiness can you NOT do it?

Spoken ironically. By holiness he means hypocrify: and fays, have you not hypocrify enough to hide your malice?

K. Henry

K. Henry. How now, my lords?
Car. Believe me, coufin Glofter,

Had not your man put up the fowl fo fuddenly, We'd had more fport-Come with thy two-hand fword.

Glo. True, uncle.

[Afide to Glocefter.

Car. Are you advis'd?-The eaft fide of the Grove? Glo. Cardinal, I am with you.

[Afide. Glo. Talking of hawking; nothing elfe, my lord.Now, by God's mother, Prieft, I'll fhave your crown for this,

K. Henry. Why, how now, uncle Glofter?

Or all my Fence fhall fail.

Car. [Afide.] Medice, teipfum.

Protector, fee to't well, protect yourself.

[Afide.

K. Henry. The winds grow high, so do your ftomachs, lords.

How irksome is this musick to my heart!

When fuch ftrings jar, what hopes of harmony? pray, my lords, let me compound this ftrife."

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Enter One, crying, A Miracle!

Glo. What means this noise?

Fellow, what miracle doft thou proclaim?

One. A miracle, a miracle!

Suf. Come to the King, and tell him what miracle. One. Forfooth, a blind man at St. Alban's fhrine, Within this half hour hath receiv'd his fight; A man, that ne'er faw in his life before.

K. Henry. Now God be prais'd, that to believing fouls

Gives light in darkness, comfort in despair!

Enter

Enter the Mayor of St. Albans, and his brethren, bearing Simpcox between two in a chair, Simpcox's wife following.

Car. Here come the townsmen on proceffion, Before your Highness to prefent the man.

K. Henry. Great is his comfort in this earthly vale, Though by his fight his fin be multiply'd.

Glo. Stand by, my masters, bring him near the King,

His Highness' pleasure is to talk with him.

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

What, haft thou been long blind, and now restor❜d?
Simp. Born blind, an't please your Grace.
Wife. Ay, indeed, was he.

Suf. What woman is this?

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

Glo. Had'ft thou been his mother, thou couldst have better told.

K. Henry. Where wert thou born?

Simp. At Berwick in the north, an't like your Grace. K. Henry. Poor Soul! God's goodness hath been great to thee:

Let never day or night unhallowed pass,

But ftill remember what the Lord hath done.

Queen. Tell me, good fellow, cam'ft thou here by chance,

Or of devotion, to this holy fhrine?

Simp. God knows, of pure devotion; being call'd A hundred times and oftner, in my fleep

By good Saint Alban; who faid, Simpcox, come;
Come, offer at my fhrine, and I will help thee.
Wife. Moft true, forfooth; and many a time and oft
Myself have heard a voice to call him fo.

Car. What, art thou lame?
Simp. Ay, God Almighty help me!

Suf

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