Part 18

King. How fare's my Lord? Speake Beauford to thy Soueraigne

Ca. If thou beest death, Ile giue thee Englands Treasure, Enough to purchase such another Island, So thou wilt let me liue, and feele no paine

King. Ah, what a signe it is of euill life, Where death's approach is seene so terrible

War. Beauford, it is thy Soueraigne speakes to thee

Beau. Bring me vnto my Triall when you will. Dy'de he not in his bed? Where should he dye? Can I make men liue where they will or no? Oh torture me no more, I will confesse. Aliue againe? Then shew me where he is, Ile giue a thousand pound to looke vpon him. He hath no eyes, the dust hath blinded them. Combe downe his haire; looke, looke, it stands vpright, Like Lime-twigs set to catch my winged soule: Giue me some drinke, and bid the Apothecarie Bring the strong poyson that I bought of him

King. Oh thou eternall mouer of the heauens, Looke with a gentle eye vpon this Wretch, Oh beate away the busie medling Fiend, That layes strong siege vnto this wretches soule, And from his bosome purge this blacke dispaire

War. See how the pangs of death do make him grin

Sal. Disturbe him not, let him passe peaceably

King. Peace to his soule, if Gods good pleasure be. Lord Card'nall, if thou think'st on heauens blisse, Hold vp thy hand, make signall of thy hope. He dies and makes no signe: Oh God forgiue him

War. So bad a death, argues a monstrous life

King. Forbeare to iudge, for we are sinners all. Close vp his eyes, and draw the Curtaine close, And let vs all to Meditation.

Exeunt.

Alarum. Fight at Sea. Ordnance goes off.

Enter Lieutenant, Suffolke, and others.

Lieu. The gaudy blabbing and remorsefull day, Is crept into the bosome of the Sea: And now loud houling Wolues arouse the Iades That dragge the Tragicke melancholy night: Who with their drowsie, slow, and flagging wings Cleape dead-mens graues, and from their misty Iawes, Breath foule contagious darknesse in the ayre: Therefore bring forth the Souldiers of our prize, For whilst our Pinnace Anchors in the Downes, Heere shall they make their ransome on the sand, Or with their blood staine this discoloured shore. Maister, this Prisoner freely giue I thee, And thou that art his Mate, make boote of this: The other Walter Whitmore is thy share

1.Gent. What is my ransome Master, let me know

Ma. A thousand Crownes, or else lay down your head Mate. And so much shall you giue, or off goes yours

Lieu. What thinke you much to pay 2000. Crownes, And beare the name and port of Gentlemen? Cut both the Villaines throats, for dy you shall: The liues of those which we haue lost in fight, Be counter-poys'd with such a pettie summe

1.Gent. Ile giue it sir, and therefore spare my life

2.Gent. And so will I, and write home for it straight

Whitm. I lost mine eye in laying the prize aboord, And therefore to reuenge it, shalt thou dye, And so should these, if I might haue my will

Lieu. Be not so rash, take ransome, let him liue

Suf. Looke on my George, I am a Gentleman, Rate me at what thou wilt, thou shalt be payed

Whit. And so am I: my name is Walter Whitmore. How now? why starts 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 dye: Yet let not this make thee be bloody-minded, Thy name is Gualtier, being rightly sounded

Whit. Gualtier or Walter, which it is I care not, Neuer yet did base dishonour blurre our name, But with our sword we wip'd away the blot. Therefore, when Merchant-like I sell reuenge, Broke be my sword, my Armes torne and defac'd, And I proclaim'd a Coward through the world

Suf. Stay Whitmore, for thy Prisoner is a Prince, The Duke of Suffolke, William de la Pole

Whit. The Duke of Suffolke, muffled vp in ragges? Suf. I, but these ragges are no part of the Duke

Lieu. But Ioue was neuer slaine as thou shalt be, Obscure and lowsie Swaine, King Henries blood