Part 25

Trumpets sound. Enter Reignier.

Reig. Welcome braue Earle into our Territories, Command in Aniou what your Honor pleases

Suf. Thankes Reignier, happy for so sweet a Childe, Fit to be made companion with a King: What answer makes your Grace vnto my suite? Reig. Since thou dost daigne to woe her little worth, To be the Princely Bride of such a Lord: Vpon condition I may quietly Enioy mine owne, the Country Maine and Aniou, Free from oppression, or the stroke of Warre, My daughter shall be Henries, if he please

Suf. That is her ransome, I deliuer her, And those two Counties I will vndertake Your Grace shall well and quietly enioy

Reig. And I againe in Henries Royall name, As Deputy vnto that gracious King, Giue thee her hand for signe of plighted faith

Suf. Reignier of France, I giue thee Kingly thankes, Because this is in Trafficke of a King. And yet me thinkes I could be well content To be mine owne Atturney in this case. Ile ouer then to England with this newes. And make this marriage to be solemniz'd: So farewell Reignier, set this Diamond safe In Golden Pallaces as it becomes

Reig. I do embrace thee, as I would embrace The Christian Prince King Henrie were he heere

Mar. Farewell my Lord, good wishes, praise, & praiers, Shall Suffolke euer haue of Margaret.

Shee is going.

Suf. Farwell sweet Madam: but hearke you Margaret, No Princely commendations to my King? Mar. Such commendations as becomes a Maide, A Virgin, and his Seruant, say to him

Suf. Words sweetly plac'd, and modestie directed, But Madame, I must trouble you againe, No louing Token to his Maiestie? Mar. Yes, my good Lord, a pure vnspotted heart, Neuer yet taint with loue, I send the King

Suf. And this withall.

Kisse her.

Mar. That for thy selfe, I will not so presume, To send such peeuish tokens to a King

Suf. Oh wert thou for my selfe: but Suffolke stay, Thou mayest not wander in that Labyrinth, There Minotaurs and vgly Treasons lurke, Solicite Henry with her wonderous praise. Bethinke thee on her Vertues that surmount, Mad naturall Graces that extinguish Art, Repeate their semblance often on the Seas, That when thou com'st to kneele at Henries feete, Thou mayest bereaue him of his wits with wonder.

Exit

Enter Yorke, Warwicke, Shepheard, Pucell.

Yor. Bring forth that Sorceresse condemn'd to burne

Shep. Ah Ione, this kils thy Fathers heart out-right, Haue I sought euery Country farre and neere, And now it is my chance to finde thee out, Must I behold thy timelesse cruell death: Ah Ione, sweet daughter Ione, Ile die with thee

Pucel. Decrepit Miser, base ignoble Wretch, I am am descended of a gentler blood. Thou art no Father, nor no Friend of mine

Shep. Out, out: My Lords, and please you, 'tis not so I did beget her, all the Parish knowes: Her Mother liueth yet, can testifie She was the first fruite of my Bach'ler-ship

War. Gracelesse, wilt thou deny thy Parentage? Yorke. This argues what her kinde of life hath beene, Wicked and vile, and so her death concludes

Shep. Fye Ione, that thou wilt be so obstacle: God knowes, thou art a collop of my flesh, And for thy sake haue I shed many a teare: Deny me not, I prythee, gentle Ione

Pucell. Pezant auant. You haue suborn'd this man Of purpose, to obscure my Noble birth

Shep. 'Tis true, I gaue a Noble to the Priest, The morne that I was wedded to her mother. Kneele downe and take my blessing, good my Gyrle. Wilt thou not stoope? Now cursed be the time Of thy natiuitie: I would the Milke Thy mother gaue thee when thou suck'st her brest, Had bin a little Rats-bane for thy sake. Or else, when thou didst keepe my Lambes a-field, I wish some rauenous Wolfe had eaten thee. Doest thou deny thy Father, cursed Drab? O burne her, burne her, hanging is too good. Enter.

Yorke. Take her away, for she hath liu'd too long, To fill the world with vicious qualities

Puc. First let me tell you whom you haue condemn'd; Not me, begotten of a Shepheard Swaine, But issued from the Progeny of Kings. Vertuous and Holy, chosen from aboue, By inspiration of Celestiall Grace, To worke exceeding myracles on earth. I neuer had to do with wicked Spirits. But you that are polluted with your lustes, Stain'd with the guiltlesse blood of Innocents, Corrupt and tainted with a thousand Vices: Because you want the grace that others haue, You iudge it straight a thing impossible To compasse Wonders, but by helpe of diuels. No misconceyued, Ione of Aire hath beene A Virgin from her tender infancie, Chaste, and immaculate in very thought, Whose Maiden-blood thus rigorously effus'd, Will cry for Vengeance, at the Gates of Heauen

Yorke. I, I: away with her to execution