Go, call our uncle to our presence strait.
Say we intend to try his grace to-day,
If he be guilty, as 'tis published.

Suff.
I'll call him presently, my noble lord. [Exit.

King.
I pray you, gentle queen, and you, Lord Cardinal,
Proceed no straiter 'gainst our uncle Gloster,
Than from true evidence of good esteem
He be approved in practice culpable.

Queen.
Forbid it heav'n that malice should prevail
Or faultlessly condemn a nobleman!

King.
I thank thee: these thy words content me much. Enter Suffolk.
How now? Why look'st thou pale? Why tremblest thou?
Where is our uncle? What's the matter, Suffolk?

Suff.
Dead in his bed—my lord, Gloster is dead.

Queen.
Heaven forefend!

Beauf.
Heaven's secret judgment! I did dream to night
The duke was dumb, and could not speak a word. [Exit. “[The King swoons.

“Queen.
How fares my lord? Help, lords, the king is dead.
Run, go, help, help! Oh Henry, ope thine eyes!

“Suf.
He doth revive again—madam, be patient.”

King.
Oh heavenly grace!

Queen.
How fares my gracious lord?

Suff.
Comfort, my sovereign, gracious Henry, comfort!

King.
What! doth my Lord of Suffolk comfort me?
Came he but now to sing a raven's note,
Whose dismal tune bereft my vital powers?
And thinks he, that the chirping of a wren,
By crying comfort from a hollow breast,
Can chase away the first conceived sound?
Hide not thy poison with such sugar words,
Lay not thy hands on me; forbear I say;
Their touch affrights me as a serpent's sting!
Thou baleful messenger, out of my sight!
Upon thy eye balls murderous tyranny
Sits in grim majesty, to fright the world.
Look not upon me—for thy eyes are wounding.—
Yet, do not go away. Come basilisk
And kill the innocent gazer with thy sight;
For in the shade of death I shall find joy;
In life, but double death, now Gloster's dead.

Queen.
Why start'st thou from the Duke of Suffolk thus?
The dead protector was his enemy,
Yet he, most Christian-like, laments his death;
And as for me, foe as he was to me,
Might liquid tears, or heart-offending groans,
Or blood consuming sighs recall his life,
I would be blind with weeping, sick with groans,

And fade like primrose with blood-drinking sighs.
What know I how the world may deem of me?
It may be judged I made the duke away,
So shall my name with slander's tongue be wounded,
And princes' courts be fill'd with my reproach.
—Why dost thou turn away and hide thy face?
“I am no loathsome leper—look on me.”
Was I for this nigh wreck'd upon the sea,
And twice by adverse winds, from England's bank
Driv'n back again unto my native clime?
“The splitting rocks cower'd in the sinking sands,
And would not dash me with their ragged sides,
But left that hateful office unto thee,
Unto thy flinty heart, more hard than they.
—As far as I could ken the chalky cliffs,
When from thy shore the tempest beat us back,
I stood upon the hatches in the storm;
And when the dusky sky began to rob
My earnest gaping sight of the land's view.
I took a diamond heart from off my breast,
And threw it tow'rds thy land; the sea received it,
And so I wish'd thy bosom might my heart.”
Ah me! I can no more: die, Margaret!
For Henry weeps that thou didst live so long. Noise within, as of a popular tumult—shouts—bells rung. Enter York and Warwick, their swords drawn.

York.
It is reported, mighty sovereign,
That good Duke Humphry traiterously is murther'd,
By Suffolk and the Cardinal Beaufort's means.
The commons, like an angry hive of bees,
That want their leader, scatter up and down,
And care not whom they sting in their revenge.

Myself have calm'd their spleenful mutiny,
But till they hear the order of his death.

King.
That he is dead, good cousin, is too true;
But how he died heaven knows, not Henry.
Enter his chamber. View his breathless corpse,
And comment then upon his sudden death.

York.
That I shall do, my liege—good Warwick, stay
With the rude multitude till I return. [Exit Warwick. York goes out by the folding doors at the bottom of the stage.

King.
O thou that judgest all things, stay my thoughts,—
My thoughts, that labour to persuade my soul
Some violent hands were laid on Humphry's life.
“If my suspect be false, forgive me heaven,
For judgment only doth belong to thee!
Fain would I go to chase his paly lips
With twenty thousand kisses, and to drain
Upon his face an ocean of salt tears;
To tell my love unto his dumb deaf trunk,
And with my fingers feel his hand unfeeling;—
But all in vain are these mean obsequies,
And to survey his dead and earthly image,
What were it but to make my sorrow greater?” Re-enter York, throwing open the folding doors, and discovering a bed, and the body of Gloucester laid out within side.

York.
Come hither, gracious sovereign, view this body!
Surely as my soul shall live hereafter,

I do believe that violent hands were laid
Upon the life of this thrice famed duke.

Suf.
A dreadful oath, sworn with a solemn tongue.
What instance gives Duke Richard for his vow?

York.
See how the blood is settled in his face!
Oft have I seen a corse from whence the ghost
Hath timely parted, meagre, pale—the blood
Being all descended to the labouring heart;
Who, in the conflict that it holds with death,
Attracts the same for aidance 'gainst the enemy,
Which with the heart there cools, and ne'er returneth
To blush and beautify the cheek again.
But see—His face is black and full of blood;
His eye-balls further out than when he lived;
Staring full ghastly, like a strangled man:
His hair uprear'd, his nostrils stretch'd with struggling,
His hands abroad display'd, like one that grasp'd
And tugg'd for life, and was by strength subdued.
Look! On the sheets his hair, you see, is sticking—
His well proportion'd beard made rough and rugged,
Like to the summer corn by tempest lodged.
—Oh thou soft natural death, that art joint twin
To sweetest slumber! No rough bearded comet
Glares on thy mild departure—the dull owl
Beats not aginst thy casement—the hoarse wolf
Scents not thy carrion. Pity winds thy corse,
While horror waits on princes.* ^note

Suff.
Say'st thou, proud York?
Why, who, dost think, should do the duke to death?
Myself and Beaufort had him in protection,
And we, I hope sir, are no murderers.

York.
But both of you had vow'd Duke Humphry's death!

And you, forsooth, had the good duke to keep
'Tis like you would not treat him as a friend;
And 'tis well seen he found an enemy.

Queen.
Then you, belike, suspect these noblemen?

York.
Who finds the heifer dead, and bleeding fresh,
And sees fast by, a butcher with an axe,
But will suspect 'twas he that made the slaughter?
Who finds the partridge in the puttock's nest,
But may imagine how the bird was dead,
Although the kite soar with unblooded beak?

Queen.
Are you a butcher, Suffolk?—Where's the knife?
Is Beaufort term'd a kite?—Where are his talons?

Suf.
I bear no knife to slaughter sleeping men:
But here's a vengeful sword, rusted with ease,
That shall be scoured in his rancorous heart,
That slanders me with murder's crimson badge.

York.
But that the guilt of murder bucklers thee,
And I should rob the headsman of his fees,
Quiting thee thereby of ten thousand shames,
I would, false murderous coward, on thy knee
Make thee confess this heinous deed, and then
Give thee thy hire, and send thy soul to hell!—
Pernicious blood-sucker of sleeping men!

Suf.
Thou shalt be waking when I shed thy blood!

York.
Unworthy though thou art, I'll cope with thee,
And do some service to Duke Humphry's ghost.

King.
Why, how now lords? Your wrathful weapons drawn
Here in our presence? dare you be so bold? Shouts and tumult without.—Alarum bell rung.

Enter Warwick.

War. (addressing the people without)
Sirs, stand apart, the king shall know your mind. (To the king.)
Dread sir!—The commons send you word by me,
Unless Lord Suffolk straight be put to death,
Or banished fair England's territories,
They will by violence tear him from your palace,
And torture him with grievous lingering death.
They say, by him the good Duke Humphry died;
They say, in him they fear your highness' safety—
And they will guard you, even though you forbid,
From such fell serpents as false Suffolk is;
By whose envenomed and fatal sting
Your loving uncle is bereft of life.

(Commons within.)
An answer from the king, my Lord of Warwick!

Suf.
'Tis like the commons, rude unpolish'd hinds,
Could send such message to their sovereign:
But you, my lord, were glad to be employ'd,
To shew how quaint an orator you are.

(Commons.)
An answer from the king, or we'll break in.

King.
Go York, go Warwick, tell them all from me,
I thank them for their tender, loving care.
Tell them, that by His majesty I swear,
Whose far unworthy deputy I am,
Suffolk shall breathe infection in this air
But three days longer, on the pain of death.

Queen.
Oh! Henry, let me plead for gentle Suffolk!

King.
Ungentle queen, to call him gentle Suffolk!
No more, I say. If thou dost plead for him,
Thou wilt but add increase unto my wrath:

Had I but said, I would have kept my word—
But, when I swear, it is irrevocable—
If after three days space, thou here art found,
On any ground that I am ruler of,
The world shall not be ransom for thy life. Exit King, York, War., &c. Manet Queen and Suffolk.

Queen.
Mischance and sorrow go along with you!
Heart's discontent, and sour affliction
Be playfellows to keep you company!
And threefold vengeance light upon your steps!

Suf.
Cease gentle Queen, these execrations
And let thy Suffolk take his heavy leave.

Queen.
Fie, coward woman, and soft-hearted wretch!
Hast thou not spirit to curse thine enemy?

Suf.
A plague upon them!—wherefore should I curse them?
Would curses kill, as doth the mandrake's groan,
I would invent as bitter searching terms,
As curst, as harsh, and horrible to hear,
Deliver'd strongly through my fixed teeth,
With full as many signs of deadly hate,
As lean-faced envy in her loathsome cave.
My tongue should stumble in mine earnest words,
Mine eyes should sparkle like the beaten flint,
Mine hair be fix'd on end like one distract;
Aye, every joint should seem to curse and ban.
And even now my burthen'd heart would break,
Should I not curse them.—Poison be their drink!
Gall,—worse than gall,—the daintiest thing they taste!
Their sweetest shade, a grove of cypress trees—
Their chiefest prospect, murdering basilisks—
Their softest touch, as smart as serpents' stings—

Their music, frightful as the serpent's hiss—
And boding screech owls make the concert full!
All the foul terrors in dark seated hell—

Queen.
Enough, sweet Suffolk—thou torment'st thyself;
And these dread curses, like the sun 'gainst glass,
Or, like an overcharged gun, recoil.

Suf.
You bad me curse, 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.

Queen.
Let me entreat thee, cease! Give me thy hand,
That I bedew it with my mournful tears:
Nor let the rain of heaven wet this place
To wash away my woful monuments—
—So get thee gone, that I may know my grief—
'Tis but surmised when thou art standing by—
Go!—Speak not to me. Even now begone!
Oh!—go not yet!—even thus two friends condemn'd
Embrace, and gaze, and take ten thousand leaves,
Loather a hundred times to part than die.
Yet, now farewell—and farewell life with thee!

Suf.
Thus is poor Suffolk ten times banished.
'Tis not the land I care for, wert thou hence!
A wilderness were 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:
I have no joy in ought, but that thou livest!

Enter Buckingham.

Buck.
The Cardinal Beaufort's at the point of death;
A grievous sickness suddenly o'er took him,
That makes him gasp, and start, and catch the air,
Blaspheming heaven, and cursing men on earth.
Sometimes he talks as if Duke Humphry's ghost
Were by his side. Sometimes he calls the king,
And whispers to his pillow, as to him,
The secrets of his overburthen'd soul.
I come to tell his grace, that even now,
He cries aloud for him.

Queen.
Stay, go not to him;
Bear not this heavy message to the king.
And yet,—go, go. [Exit Buck.
What's now the world to me?
Why let the old man rave, it matters not;
For is not Suffolk exiled,—my soul's treasure?

Suf.
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 away upon its nurse's breast,
While, far from thee, I shall cry out in vain
Between thy lips my cleaving soul to part,
And with thy dear hands close my dying eyes.
Oh! let me stay, befall what may befall.

Queen.
Nay, nay, to France, sweet!—and my heart with thee.

Suf.
A jewel lock'd into the woful'st casket,
That ever did contain a gem of price! [Exeunt, severally

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