« ÎnapoiContinuă »
Queen. I am much too venturous
In tempting of your patience; but am bolden'd Under your promis'd pardon. The subjects' grief Comes through commissions, which compell from
The sixth part of his substance, to be levy'd
Is nam'd, your wars in France: This makes bold mouths:
Tongues spit their duties out, and cold hearts freeze
I would, your highness
Would give it quick consideration.
This is against our pleasure.
Wol. And for me,
I have no further gone in this, than by
A single voice; and that not past me, but
By learned approbation of the judges. If I am
Traduc'd by ignorant tongues,-which neither know
My faculties, nor person, yet will be
The chronicles of my doing,-let me say,
'Tis but the fate of place, and the rough brake That virtue must go through.
If we shall stand still,
In fear our motion will be mock'd or carp'd at,
King. Things done well,
And with a care, exempt themselves from fear
Where this is question'd, send our letters, with
The force of this commission: 'Pray, look to 't;
Wol. A word with you.
Let there be letters writ to every shire,
Of the king's grace and pardon.-The griev'd com
Hardly conceive of me; let it be nois'd,
That through our intercession, this revokement
Queen. I am sorry, that the duke of Buckingham Is run in your displeasure.
King. It grieves many:
The gentleman is learn'd, a most rare speaker,
Sit by us; you shall hear
(This was his gentleman in trust,) of him Things to strike honour sad.-Bid him recount
The fore-recited practices; whereof
We cannot feel too little, hear too much.
Wol. Stand forth; and with bold spirit relate what
Most like a careful subject, have collected
Out of the duke of Buckingham.
King. Speak freely.
Surv. First, it was usual with him, every day
Wol. Please your highness, note
This dangerous conception in this point.
Queen. My learn'd lord cardinal,
King. Speak on:
How grounded he his title to the crown,
Upon our fail? to this point hast thou heard him
Surv. He was brought to this
By a vain prophecy of Nicholas Hopkins,
King. How know'st thou this?
Surv. There is, says he, a Chartreux friar, that oft Hath sent to me, wishing me to permit
John de la Court, my chaplain, a choice hour
To me, should utter, with demure confidence
This pausingly ensu'd,—Neither the king, nor his heirs, (Tell you the duke,) shall prosper: bid him strive To the love of the commonalty; the duke
Shall govern England.
Queen. If I know you well,
You were the duke's surveyor, and lost your office
Surv. On my soul, I'll speak but truth.
I told my lord the duke, By the devil's illusions The monk might be deceiv'd; and that 't was dang'rous for him
To ruminate on this :-He answer'd, Tush!
It can do me no damage: adding further,
That, had the king in his last sickness fail'd,
King. Ha! what, so rank! Ah, ha!
There's mischief in this man :-Canft thou say further?
Surv. I can, my liege.
Surv. Being at Greenwich,
After your highness had reprov'd the duke
King. I remember
Of such a time :-Being my sworn servant,
The duke retain'd him his. But on: What hence?
Surv. If, quoth he, I for this had been committed,
The usurper Richard: who, being at Salisbury,
Have put his knife into him.
King. A giant traitor!
Wol. Now, madam, may his highness live in freedom,
And this man out of prison?
Queen. Heaven mend all!
King. There's something more would out of thee; What say'st?
Surv. After the duke his father,-with-the knife,— He stretch'd him, and, with one hand on his dagger, Another spread on his breast, mounting his eyes, He did discharge a horrible oath; whose tenour Was,-Were he evil us'd, he would out-go His father, by as much as a performance Does an irresolute purpose.
King. (Rises.) There's his period,
To sheathe his knife in us. He is attach'd;
Let him not seek 't of us; By day and night,
He's traitor to the height.
[Flourish of Trumpets.]
An Apartment in the Palace.
Enter Chamberlain, and Lord SANDS.
Cham. Is it possible, the spells of France should juggle
Men into such strange mysteries ?
Sands. New customs,
Though they be never so ridiculous,
Nay, let 'em be unmanly, yet are follow'd.
They've all new legs, and lame ones; one would take it,
That never saw them pace before, the spavin,
A springhalt, reign'd among 'em.
Cham. What news, sir Thomas Lovel?
I hear of none, but the new proclamation
Cham. What is 't for?
Lov. The reformation of our travel'd gallants, That fill the court with quarrels, talk, and tailors. Cham. I am glad, 't is there; now I would pray
To think an English courtier may be wise,
Sands. What a loss our ladies
Lov. Ay, marry,
There will be woe indeed, lords;
A French song, and a fiddle, has no fellow.