With full as many signs of deadly hate,
As lean-fac'd Envy in her loathsome cave:
My tongue should stumble in mine earnest
words:

Mine eyes should sparkle like the beaten flint;
My hair be fix'd on end, as one distract;

Ay, every joint should seem to curse and ban: And even now my burden'd heart would break, Should I not curse them. Poison be their drink! Gall, worse than gall, the daintiest that they taste!

Their sweetest shade, a grove of cypress trees! Their chiefest prospect, murdering basilisks! Their softest touch, as smart as lizards' stings! Their musick, frightful as the serpent's hiss : And boding screechowls make the concert full! All the foul terrors in dark-seated hell

Q. Mar. Enough, sweet Suffolk; thou torment'st thyself;

And these dread curses-like the sun 'gainst glass,

Or like an overcharged gun,-recoil,

And turn the force of them upon thyself.

Suff. You bade me bau, and will you bid me leave?

Now, by the ground that I am banish'd from, Well could I curse away a winter's night, Though standing naked on a mountain top, Where biting cold would never let grass grow, And think it but a minute spent in sport.

Q. Mar. O, let me entreat thee, cease! Give me thy hand,

That I may dew it with my mournful tears;
Nor let the rain of heaven wet this place,
To wash away my woful monuments.
O, could this kiss be printed in thy hand;
[Kisses his hand.
That thou might'st think upon these by the seal,
Through whom a thousand sighs are breath'd
for thee!

So, get thee gone, that I may know my grief;
'Tis but surmis'd whilst thou art standing by,
As one that surfeits thinking on a want.
I will repeal thee, or, be well assur'd,
Adventure to be banished myself:
And banished I am, if but from thee.

Go, speak not to me; even now be gone. O, go not yet!-Even thus two friends condemn'd

Embrace, and kiss, and take ten thousand leaves, Loather a hundred times to part than die.

Yet now farewell; and farewell life with thee!
Suff. Thus is poor Suffolk ten times banished,
Once by the king, and three times thrice by thee.
'Tis not the land I care for, wert thou hence;
A wilderness is populous enough,

So Suffolk had thy heavenly company:
For where thou art, there is the world itself,
With every several pleasure in the world;
And where thou art not, desolation.

I can no more:-Live thou to joy thy life;
Myself no joy in nought, but that thou liv'st.

Enter VAUX.

Q. Mar. Whither goes Vaux so fast? what news, I pr'ythee?

Vaux. To signify unto his majesty,

That cardinal Beaufort is at point of death: For suddenly a grievous sickness took him, That makes him gasp, and stare, and catch the

air,

Blaspheming God, and cursing men on earth.
Sometime, he talks as if Duke Humphrey's ghost
Were by his side; sometime, he calls the king,
And whispers to his pillow as to him,

The secrets of his overcharged soul:
And I am sent to tell his majesty,
That even now he cries aloud for him.

Q. Mar. Go, tell this heavy message to the king.

[Exit VAUX. Ah me! what is this world? what news are

these?

But wherefore grieve I at an hour's poor loss, Omitting Suffolk's exile, my soul's treasure? Why only, Suffolk, mourn I not for thee,

And with the southern clouds contend in tears; Theirs for the earth's increase, mine for my sorrows?

Now, get thee hence: The king, thou know'st, is coming?

If thou be found by me, thou art but dead.
Suff. If I depart from thee, I cannot live:

And in thy sight to die, what were it else,
But like a pleasant slumber in thy lap?
Here could I breathe my soul into the air,
As mild and gentle as the cradle babe,
Dying with mother's dug between its lips:
Where, from thy sight, I should be raging mad,
And cry out for thee to close up mine eyes,
To have thee with thy lips to stop my mouth;'
So should'st thou either turn my flying soul,
Or I should breathe it so into thy body,
And then it liv'd in sweet Elysium.
To die by thee, were but to die in jest;
From thee to die, were torture more than death;
O, let me stay, befall what may befall.

Q. Mar. Away! though parting be a fretful

cor'sive

It is applied to a deathful wound.

To France, sweet Suffolk: Let me hear from thee:

For wheresoe'er thou art in this world's globe, I'll have an Iris that shall find thee out.

Suff. I go.

Q. Mar.

And take my heart with thee. Suff. A jewel, lock'd into the woful'st cask That ever did contain a thing of worth. Even as a splitted bark, so sunder we;

This way fall I to death.

Q. Mar.

This way for me.

[Exeunt, severally.

SCENE III. London.

Cardinal Beaufort's Bedchamber.

Enter KING HENRY, SALISBURY, WARWICK, and Others. The Cardinal in Bed; Attendants with him.

K. Hen. How fares my lord? speak, Beaufort, to thy sovereign.

Car. If thou be'st death, I'll give thee Eng-
land's treasure,

Enough to purchase such another island,
So thou wilt let me live, and feel no pain.

K. Hen. Ah, what a sign it is of evil life, When death's approach is seen so terrible! War. Beaufort, it is thy sovereign speaks to thee.

Car. Bring me unto my trial when you will.
Died he not in his bed? where should he die?
Can I make men live, whe'r they will or no?-
O! torture me no more, I will confess.-
Alive again? then show me where he is;
I'll give a thousand pound to look upon him.-
He hath no eyes, the dust hath blinded them.-
Comb down his hair: look! look! it stands
upright,

Like lime-twigs set to catch my winged soul!—
Give me some drink; and bid the apothecary
Bring the strong poison that I bought of him.
K. Hen. O thou eternal Mover of the heavens,
Look with a gentle eye upon this wretch!
O, beat away the busy meddling fiend,
That lays strong siege unto this wretch's soul,
And from his bosom purge this black despair!
War. See, how the pangs of death do make
him grin.

Sal. Disturb him not, let him pass peaceably. K. Hen. Peace to his soul, if God's good pleasure be!

Lord cardinal, if thou think'st on heaven's bliss, Hold up thy hand, make signal of thy hopeHe dies, and makes no sign; O God, forgive him! War. So bad a death argues a monstrous life. K. Hen. Forbear to judge, for we are sinners

all.

and draw the curtain close;

Close up his eyes,
And let us all to meditation.

[Exeunt.

ACT IV.

SCENE I. Kent. The Seashore near Dover.

Firing heard at Sea. Then enter, from a Boat, a Captain, a Master, a Master's Mate, WALTER WHITMORE, and Others; with them SUFFOLK, and other Gentlemen, prisoners.

Cap. The gaudy, blabbing, and remorseful day Is crept into the bosom of the sea;

And now loud howling wolves arouse the jades That drag the tragick melancholy night;

Who with their drowsy, slow, and flagging wings

Clip dead men's graves, and from their misty

jaws

Breathe foul contagious darkness in the air.
Therefore, bring forth the soldiers of our prize;
For, whilst our pinnace anchors in the Downs,
Here shall they make their ransome on the sand,
Or with their blood stain this discolour'd shore.-
Master, this prisoner freely give I thee :-
And thou that art his mate, make boot of this;-
The other [pointing to SUFFOLK], Walter Whit-
more, is thy share.

1 Gent. What is my ransome, master? let me know.

Mast. A thousand crowns, or else lay down your head.

Mate. And so much shall you give, or off goes yours.

Cap. What, think you much to pay two thou sand crowns,

And bear the name and port of gentlemen ?Cut both the villains' throats;-for die you shall; The lives of those which we have lost in fight Cannot be counterpois'd with such a petty sùm. 1 Gent. I'll give it, sir; and therefore spare my life.

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

Whit. I lost mine eye in laying the prize aboard, And therefore to revenge it, shalt thou die; [To SUFFOLK. And so should these, if I might have my will. Cap. Be not so rash; take ransome, let him live. Suff. Look on my George, I am a gentleman; Rate me at what thou wilt, thou shalt be paid. Whit. And so am I; my name is Walter Whit

more.

How now? why start'st thou? what, doth death affright?

Suff, Thy name affrights me,

is death.

, in whose sound

A cunning man did calculate my birth,
And told me that by Water I should die:
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;