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Folger Shakespeare Library, Twelfth Night. To Jun. 9, 2013.
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Henry VI, Part 2 (Folio 1, 1623)

Author: William Shakespeare
Not Peer Reviewed
The second Part of Henry the Sixt.
137
Combe downe his haire; looke, looke, it stands vpright,
2150Like 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,
2155Oh 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.
2160King. 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.
2165King. 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.
2170Lieu. 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
2175Cleape 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,
2180Or 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.
2185Ma. 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:
2190The 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,
2195And 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.
2200Whit. 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:
2205Yet 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.
2210Therefore, 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.
2215Whit. 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.
Suf. The honourable blood of Lancaster
2220Must not be shed by such a iaded Groome:
Hast thou not kist thy hand, and held my stirrop?
Bare-headed plodded by my foot-cloth Mule,
And thought thee happy when I shooke my head.
How often hast thou waited at my cup,
2225Fed from my Trencher, kneel'd downe at the boord,
When I haue feasted with Queene Margaret?
Remember it, and let it make thee Crest-falne,
I, and alay this thy abortiue Pride:
How in our voyding Lobby hast thou stood,
2230And duly wayted for my comming forth?
This hand of mine hath writ in thy behalfe,
And therefore shall it charme thy riotous tongue.
Whit. Speak Captaine, shall I stab the forlorn Swain.
Lieu. First let my words stab him, as he hath me.
2235Suf. Base slaue, thy words are blunt, and so art thou.
Lieu. Conuey him hence, and on our long boats side,
Strike off his head.
Suf. Thou dar'st not for thy owne.
Lieu. Poole, Sir Poole? Lord,
I kennell, puddle, sinke, whose filth and dirt
2240Troubles the siluer Spring, where England drinkes:
Now will I dam vp this thy yawning mouth,
For swallowing the Treasure of the Realme.
Thy lips that kist the Queene, shall sweepe the ground:
And thou that smil'dst at good Duke Humfries death,
2245Against the senselesse windes shall grin in vaine,
Who in contempt shall hisse at thee againe.
And wedded be thou to the Hagges of hell,
For daring to affye a mighty Lord
Vnto the daughter of a worthlesse King,
2250Hauing neyther Subiect, Wealth, nor Diadem:
By diuellish policy art thou growne great,
And like ambitious Sylla ouer-gorg'd,
With gobbets of thy Mother-bleeding heart.
By thee Aniou and Maine were sold to France.
2255The false reuolting Normans thorough thee,
Disdaine to call vs Lord, and Piccardie
Hath slaine their Gouernors, surpriz'd our Forts,
And sent the ragged Souldiers wounded home.
The Princely Warwicke, and the Neuils all,
2260Whose dreadfull swords were neuer drawne in vaine,
As hating thee, and rising vp in armes.
And now the House of Yorke thrust from the Crowne,
By shamefull murther of a guiltlesse King,
And lofty proud incroaching tyranny,
2265Burnes with reuenging fire, whose hopefull colours
Aduance our halfe-fac'd Sunne, striuing to shine;
Vnder the which is writ, Inuitis nubibus.
The Commons heere in Kent are vp in armes,
And to conclude, Reproach and Beggerie,
2270Is crept into the Pallace of our King,
And all by thee: away, conuey him hence.
Suf. O that I were a God, to shoot forth Thunder
Vpon these paltry, seruile, abiect Drudges:
Small things make base men proud. This Villaine heere,
2275Being Captaine of a Pinnace, threatens more
Then Bargulus the strong Illyrian Pyrate.
Drones sucke not Eagles blood, but rob Bee-hiues:
It is impossible that I should dye
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